


My Boy

by orphan_account



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Classical Music, Disturbing Themes, Emotional Manipulation, Hannibal is a Bastard, M/M, Obsessive Behavior, Oral Sex, Pedophilia, Phone Sex, Sexual Tension, Slow Burn, Will is a sassy bastard, and thats basically the whole story, handball letter is up to no good :(, heated chess games, not canon-typical sex, will is 13, will's father sux
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-25
Updated: 2020-08-08
Packaged: 2021-03-01 23:27:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Underage
Chapters: 18
Words: 79,205
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23835364
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: "I don’t know, it’s all so fake and superficial and I just don’t find you all that interesting.”Dead silence followed his words, save for the fireplace crackling.“Please, go on,” Hannibal prompted.“Go on?” Will smiled cruelly. He turned back to Hannibal who was already facing him wearing his full attention on his sleeve. “Are you enjoying this?”--Will, the 13-year-old son of a criminal profiler, discovers a side of his father's psychiatrist his father never saw.
Relationships: Hannibal Lecter/Original Male Character(s), Will Graham/Hannibal Lecter
Comments: 271
Kudos: 708





	1. One

**Author's Note:**

> There is a soundtrack with this and if you listen to it, the tones of the songs correspond with what’s going on and add some other interesting elements; foreshadowing, recurring themes, etc. The times don’t always match the length of the sections though. ***The playlist name is “My Boy” on Spotify (by miss clown)***  
> 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TLDR below
> 
> This fic has been orphaned, but I'll leave the original note I left back on ch15 before I orphaned it, for context.
> 
> Hey guys- this is going to be abrupt and I'm sorry. But recently I got a comment that made me reconsider a lot of things and I decided I'm not going to be writing any more of this fic. I'm posting the last of the 17 chapters I already promised, for closure and since I’ve already written and edited them, but nothing of the sequel. I'll take the whole fic down in a few weeks to give people time to finish it up, so because of this I don't feel the need to stick to the weekly schedule and will be posting chapters as I'm able.  
> The fact that this story exists is horrific in itself. It's easy to excuse it as "not that deep" or "it's just smut, don't read into it" but those just aren't valid excuses to me anymore. Even though the show itself gets into some gruesome situations, it never depicts any of them in a favorable light like this story depicts pedophilia. I don't think any of you guys believe pedophilia is actually okay (I hope you don't) and I think we're all very aware this is fiction, but the harm that could potentially come to someone from a depiction like this is very real. There's a big difference between romanticizing murder/cannibalism and pedophilia. With the former, we have the context of the show where all of those topics are talked about in a realistic way and we can go off of that knowing that we're not really encouraging people to murder. The whole murder husbands thing is romanticized with the awareness that it's "just fiction." The line with pedophilia is much blurrier. It's a lot closer to us in a way that serial killers aren't, and there are real people out there who genuinely don't believe it's wrong. It's an ongoing conversation we don't have to have with murder.  
> I don't want to be lecturing you guys. I can't tell you what to read or think. I know you're probably just here to read some self-indulgent smut and I completely understand that, but this is still the decision I want to make. If I am thinking into it too deeply then it's better to be safe than sorry. Again, I can't tell you what to read, but please keep in mind there are real children out there being abused by irresponsible and selfish adults. I don't want to contribute to that anymore. Writing about it, in my opinion, isn't a victimless crime. And if you are in or know someone who is in a pedophilic relationship, do not let this continue. Even if it seems healthy, it's not. Contact the authorities and anybody else who needs to know to make sure this stops immediately.  
> To that commenter who knocked sense into me and forced me to confront this, thank you for speaking up. I'm sorry it needed to be confronted at all- this fic is inexcusable. If I hurt you with my writing I'm so sorry, and I hope with this note that I'm undoing at least a little bit of that damage. If there's anything more I can do to help, please email me or let me know again in the comments. Thank you.  
> Again, I'm sorry for the suddenness of this, but it needs to be done. Your comments and support have been so inspiring to me and I can't thank you enough. I'm going to keep writing, of course, but nothing in the realm of this fic's universe or with the theme of pedophilia. I promise to be mindful, in the future, of how my work can impact others. As a creator I feel incredibly responsible for what kind of message I put out into the world and I need to make sure that it's a positive one, rather than turn a blind eye to what I'm doing wrong. I don't want to make any excuses for myself because there are no valid ones. I'm sorry, and if I do do something along the lines of this again, please speak up and I will fix it in any way I possibly can.  
> If there's anything else I haven't mentioned here that needs to be brought to my attention or if you have any questions, please contact me and I'll help as best I can. Thank you all; your support has meant the world to me and I hope that with this note I could have impacted you positively, and only positively. Stay safe and take care of each other. <3  
> 
> 
> TLDR: I'm posting the last of these 17 chapters but will not be writing a sequel because it's irresponsible and immoral to be contributing to the romanticization of abusive relationships. This was brought to my attention by one commenter in particular. Thank you so much to that person for confronting me with the issue and I'm so sorry it needed to be brought up at all. If I caused anyone hurt I hope I can undo it with this amendment.  
> ***If you are in or know anyone who is in a pedophilic relationship, speak out and contact the authorities immediately.***  
> I'm leaving this up for a few more weeks to let people finish reading and get closure and then I'm taking it down. If you have any questions or there's anything else I need to be aware of, please contact me with the info in my profile.

**Intermezzo (from Carmen, Bizet)**

Usually the tick of Hannibal Lecter’s numberless analog clock was so undetectable that it dissolved into the ever-present electronic hum of the walls. Now while his office was completely empty, even of ghosts, it ticked its way back into his awareness. The hands read ten minutes past two, ten minutes since the appointment was scheduled to begin. Usually this was about the point the patient would call, apologize, and ask to reschedule, but Dr. Lecter knew Vincent Graham well enough to doubt him to be the kind of man not to show without calling beforehand.

Technically Vincent wasn’t a patient. On record their appointments were “conversations,” as requested by Vincent’s boss Jack Crawford. Basically, Vincent got all the benefits of a patient without having to pay. Hannibal didn’t mind, though; Vincent desperately needed the therapy. His position as a criminal profiler was severely augmenting his anxiety, and always had been, but one murder committed by someone whom they named the Copycat Killer pushed him over the edge into ‘teetering on unstable’ and finally prompted Jack to say something. The Copycat wasn’t like other killers who had a motive. He was purely psychopathic, meaning his motive was irrelevant and so were many other details about the victim. Hannibal had a working theory that Vincent’s fear of losing control was directly confronted by this new killer’s extraordinary control over himself and his actions.

During their first “conversation,” he recognized the panic in the patient’s eyes as Vincent silently analyzed the smallest interactions and soaked in the vibrations of everything around him, from the light in the windows to the color psychology of his doctor's suits. The attention to detail made him a fantastic profiler, one of the best Jack had ever seen, but was a severe hindrance when it came to being a functional human being. In social situations he was paranoid; trapped inside his head. At home he was unable to retire his FBI badge and become a father.

Dr. Lecter was rather inside his head too, but he contained himself rather than trapped. He allowed himself scheduled visits outside while Vincent paced nervously from wall to wall, suffocating because he didn't know how to open and close the doors at will.

Hannibal glanced at the clock on his desk. 2:15. The ticking made the office feel like a wasteland. It bounced off every wall and wormed its way in and out of every crevice. It tapped up and down the floor rocking in a calculated waltz; life’s unyielding metronome.

Psychiatry was always like a dance, or like sex. At first getting anything genuine out of Vincent required a great amount of conversational foreplay. Much of it was a gentle consolation for Vincent to bare his raw emotions, stripping away his inhibitions piece by piece, while Hannibal searched for a pattern. Then came the moment when he found a vulnerable nerve in the patient’s hide. He pressed his finger in that spot, and Vincent shrank away. Usually it was in the form of a dismissive, self-deprecating joke that declared they would not approach that topic for a while. He was the venus fly trap of patients. This had been the trend for seven straight “conversations,” with little progress along the way. Vincent was much too in the business of putting up walls and not so interested in opening doors.

However, despite how the patient tried to cover it up, within the first few sessions Hannibal realized there was another issue at hand besides Vincent’s job: his 9-year-old son, Will. It wasn’t uncommon for parents to fear that their newborn child didn’t love them, and usually the paranoia abated with time, but Vincent went in the reverse order. Will had been diagnosed with high-functioning autism when he was a toddler so he was already at a disadvantage when it came to communication. Together with Vincent they were the perfect storm.

Hannibal was curious to meet the boy and observe Vincent’s interactions with him, but Vincent usually left him with a babysitter during the summer (it was early June when their appointments began). He thought he might have to ask explicitly if he didn't get a chance soon.

Finally Hannibal heard the click of a doorknob and shifting sounds from the waiting room. He unfortunately didn't have a receptionist to help him in receiving patients, so he waited just a minute before going to the door himself.

When he stepped in the room, Vincent was sitting in his usual spot. Today he was dressed in a casual college sweater and jeans instead of his normal work clothes. Likely for his day off. In the chair next to him was a young boy in a monochrome flannel shirt. Hannibal couldn’t see many of his features—his thick, curly hair covered much of his face while he kept his head down, immersed in a game on his tablet. The light bounced off his face.

"Hey,” Vincent looked up at Hannibal and greeted him with a smile. "Sorry I’m late. I couldn’t find another babysitter for Will—our usual one just canceled on me 10 minutes before I left, and my sister’s in California.” He looked over his shoulder at his son. “I hope it’s okay if he stays here until we’re finished."

Will was typing on a screen bigger than the size of both his hands. By the way he sat hunched over and how his fingers moved over the game constantly, it looked as if he was putting all his concentration into it. But, upon closer investigation, Hannibal could see right through it. He was trying too hard. Not enough was going on on the screen to justify such exaggerated focus. Will wasn’t distracted, he just didn’t want to talk.

Hannibal understood this attitude perfectly and respectfully turned his attention away. “That’s perfectly alright,” he answered.

"Thank you. Will," prompted Vincent. "Say hi to Dr. Lecter."

The boy didn't look up. "Hi," he said. His voice was as flat as the staccato repetition of one piano key. "Thank you for letting me stay."

"It’s my pleasure. Let me know if you need anything." He turned to Vincent and opened the door wider for him to come in. Vincent walked through after one last glance to Will, who still didn’t look up from his screen. After he had gone Hannibal saw the boy’s stare shift to the side just a bit, keeping them safely in his peripheral vision.

Hannibal smiled, just to show him he knew. Will’s eyes darted away.

"He’s shutting me out," Vincent muttered. He sat hunched forward in Hannibal’s chair, elbows resting on his thighs and hands clasped in a white-knuckled grip. "I’m trying to communicate like you said, I swear, but I just don’t feel like he cares.”

"He’s not shutting you out, Vincent," Dr. Lecter replied. He used an equally quiet volume so Will couldn’t hear them from outside. "He’s shutting himself in."

"I feel like he’s not my son."

The words hung in the air between them uncomfortably. A moment of dead silence passed louder than either of their voices and then Vincent sighed, and slunk back into the chair rubbing his face as if to rouse himself from a nightmare. "God," he groaned, "I feel like such a horrible father saying that. I love him. More than anything in the world. God, I do. It’s more like I feel like I’m his father, but I don’t feel like he’s my son. I feel… I’m holding my half of the rope," he sat up suddenly and held his fist out to demonstrate, exposing the mist coating his eyes, "but I don’t feel the tug of his half on the other side. It’s all dark and I can’t see a thing." He exhaled. The mist was getting heavier. "If Bella was here… Things would be different. I’d be different."

Sensing a break in the conversation, Hannibal took the tissue box from the small table beside his chair and offered it to him.

Vincent took a few tissues with a muttered "thanks" and wiped his eyes with one. The rest he folded into even halves and laid them across the arm of the chair. These systematic habits weren’t new. Vincent needed a habit that gave him the illusion of control over his environment when he had so little control over his volatile nature.

Every session, he went to sit in the same armchair, acting as if their hierarchy was set in stone and symbolized through the designation of those chairs. Hannibal wasn’t just used to allowing his patients to pick which chair they wanted—in fact, he encouraged it. It established early on certain personality traits. For example, a person who chose one chair with little hesitation was more assertive and required a different personality from Hannibal, while somebody waiting for their doctor to sit first would be less assured, or perhaps just inclined to be polite. At the beginning of this session in particular, Hannibal insisted Vincent sit in the chair opposite than usual—the one facing away from the door. Judging by how the conversation was going so far, perhaps minute details such as these were making a difference. Vincent had never cried in front of Hannibal before.

"I know it’s not his fault,” Vincent went on. “He’s just a kid, after all. He shouldn’t have to deal with this. And I love him more than anything in this world. I just don’t know how to tell him that in a way that matters.”

"You’re relying on the tug to tell you where Will’s end is instead of reaching into the dark to search for it yourself." He left a pause for it to sink in. Vincent’s expression deepened. “It’s quite possible to make a connection with him, but you’re far more capable than he is to instigate it."

"If I’m the best there is then we’re both screwed, aren’t we?" Vincent asked with a small smile. He peeked out of his half-closed eyelids at Hannibal, who didn’t waver in his expressionless gaze.

"Humor is your scapegoat,” Dr. Lecter replied. “Such a coping mechanism won’t work against somebody like your son who is ultra-sensitive to the emotions of those around him. Perhaps even more than you are. In your interactions with friends and colleagues you may be able to rely on this method of false levity, but Will, he senses the hesitation; the fear. So you overthink every interaction and exchange, and in that paranoia you cut too much out of your actions, just to be safe. Safe from what? In case you hurt him?" He paused, watching Vincent’s pained reaction. "Or in case he won’t love you for who you are?"

Vincent turned away and Hannibal could see the tears falling down his profile. He tried to stop them with another tissue, but they kept coming.

A minute passed while Dr. Lecter gave Vincent some time. He was a quiet crier, and the sounds didn’t ring through the whole office like they did with some patients. Hannibal wondered for a moment if Will could hear them from the waiting room. He never expected to find out, but the question remained. Many questions remained.

The boy was clearly intelligent enough to lie with his mouth shut, and convincingly enough to certainly fool his father. But intelligence was a vague trait; merely a doorway to a much larger spectrum of possibilities. Intelligent in what way, exactly? Rather, which ways. Hannibal felt the gentle stir of curiosity itch under his skin at just the taste of an idea, temptingly untapped.

It wasn’t about intelligence, or even beauty. It was nothing Hannibal could pin down. There was just something about Will’s eyes that struck him at a particular angle. Something about his hands that left a lingering taste in his mouth. Something he couldn't wash out.

When his patient was quiet again and some time had passed, Hannibal continued his dialogue in a gentle tone. "Most of our problems with other people begin within the self; it is the filter through which we perceive the world. It is said that one cannot properly love without first loving the self."

Vincent exhaled, holding the tissue tightly against his mouth to stifle any noises.

Their hour ended when Vincent’s eyes were dry and only carried a red tinge around the rims. They talked for a minute in the waiting room about the rescheduling of their next meeting while Will was engrossed in a chess game the computer was losing, badly. Even when Hannibal had been engaged in a conversation, his eyes wouldn’t stop shifting to Will, and even when he forced himself to focus on the conversation they were fighting an uphill battle.

It wasn’t like the boy was ignoring them. Hannibal knew by intuition that he was taking in every word. He probably noticed that Hannibal’s eyes were on him, too, if his intuition was as sharp as Hannibal thought it was. Their existences were interacting before they spoke. Will pulled back a thicket of curls and tucked them behind his ear and Hannibal found himself hanging onto every movement of his fingers.

Vincent’s phone buzzed in the middle of his sentence. He took it out and glanced at the message, whispering, "Shoot.” He opened his phone and started typing back. "I’m sorry, there’s something I have to go see.”

“Copycat?”

Vincent exhaled. “Jesus, I hope not.”

"I understand. Let’s be in touch later and to discuss our next appointment. You said your sitter is unavailable today?" Hannibal looked at the clock on the wall reading 14 minutes past three.

"She is.” Vincent was slightly distracted as he copied the address and entered it into the maps app on his phone. “But I don’t know if I have any other options,” he said. “Are you okay with waiting in the car until I’m done?" Vincent looked at Will, who nodded without looking up.

"Or he could spend the time here."

Vincent turned back to Hannibal, both surprised and confused in the pause that preceded his question, "Is that okay?"

"Of course. I had a cancellation this afternoon so I have over an hour until my next appointment, but he’s welcome to stay as long as he wants. If that’s alright with you, Will.”

Will nodded again.

"Are you sure it’s alright?” Vincent asked. “I don’t want to… cross any boundaries. Professionally.”

“Technically speaking, you’re not my patient.”

“I guess not. I just don’t want to impose…”

Eventually Vincent agreed, against his reluctance—the clock was ticking away valuable time. So he thanked the doctor, said his goodbyes to his son and left. The door closed and the two were alone in the waiting room.

Hannibal looked at Will’s tablet again and saw him pressing his thumb against the top right corner to start another game. “Checkmate! White wins” read across the screen with big block letters and trumpets blowing cartoonish confetti. Hannibal was suddenly hyper-aware that whatever he said was the first thing he would ever say directly and only to Will and his heart seized for a moment. Unfortunately, he happened to be at a loss for wit at the moment.

"Did you win the last game?" he asked.

"Yeah."

Will moved his knight and took a bishop for his own. The quiet "pop, pop" when he moved his piece and the next quiet "ping" of the computer’s counterattack was what filled the brief pause that Hannibal spent just watching the way the screen glowed off Will’s face. But the game’s colors and enlarged pieces looked like it was made for children, so he couldn’t imagine it would be that difficult, even on its highest setting.

"If you’d like," he suggested, "I might pose a greater challenge than the computer."

Will glanced away from the screen, taking the words onto the surgeon’s table and dissecting them in his head.

**Introduction and Rondo Capriccioso op. 28 (Saint-Saëns)**

They relocated into the office and Hannibal led the boy to his desk. He pulled out his chair for Will to sit, but Will still glanced at Hannibal first asking for sure permission. Rather, glanced in the direction of his face, stopping around his chest like there was a censor bar on Hannibal’s neck up. Vincent had mentioned this as one thing that prevented them from connecting—Will wasn’t often comfortable making eye contact with his father, let alone with strangers.

Hannibal gestured to the chair again and went to pull a spare one from the other side of the room, so Will took a seat. “I have a physical chess board here,” Hannibal said. “If it’s alright I thought we might use that.”

“Okay.”

Hannibal brought a grey-ivory board set over from the bottom shelf of a cabinet and set it on the table while he pulled his chair up next to Will’s.

“I'll be black,” Will said, as he was arranging his pieces.

“Alright.” Hannibal wasn’t surprised by this civility but he did think it was a curious choice. He set his chair next to Will’s and they began.

Hannibal opened by playing his king’s pawn forward, a standard if not fairly aggressive start. Will responded in a French defensive style, which would leave them both a lot of versatility and helped to develop Hannibal’s working theory of Will’s playing style. However, Hannibal knew this could also be a random move if Will wasn't thoroughly self-educated on chess. He was so young there was no guarantee. So Hannibal tested both ideas at once with one move.

Instead of responding in the standard way to the French defense, he moved his right-most pawn up one square. Will took a long time to think about this and although all his emotions were always shielded by a reflective veil in his green eyes he seemed to be stumped. It was a very strange, wild card move. The lengthy period he took studying this reply told Hannibal for sure that Will wasn't uncomfortable acting without an ability to sense what the other was thinking.

Likewise, Hannibal anticipated that if Will wasn't trained he might respond randomly with no inclination of what his first move suggested. But Will continued on in the regular French defensive style, showing he clearly knew what he was doing. From here, Hannibal knew exactly what kind of game to play.

A turn later of moving his right-hand pawn idly up the side, Hannibal brought one of his pawns right up to Will’s French line and after a moment of consideration, Will took it. Hannibal didn’t retaliate. He continued moving his right-most pawn slowly up the board. Will’s eyes were glued on that pawn. It meant nothing and threatened none of his pieces, so much so he suspected it was probably a red herring.

Will moved a few other powerful players into the centerfield but didn’t dare go any further. Hannibal used up three rounds moving his lonely pawn up, square by square, to Will’s front line, and in what he suspected might have been frustration Will finally took the pawn out of the game with his knight. Still, he took no further action than that. Will had every chance to initiate something but continued to show extreme discipline.

In fact, Hannibal couldn’t recall ever spending so much time with a child of Will’s age in total silence. Just the shuffle of wood over the glossy grey-white board licked the air here and there. When Will was playing—and his turns took longer—it seemed Dr. Lecter could not keep his eyes from slipping off the playing field. Whenever Hannibal was waiting for Will to respond, he would all of a sudden find his eyes tracing the youthful slope of his freckle-spotted cheek. Will used a peach-scented shampoo. The smell drifted off his thick briar of hair.

Hannibal continued moving pieces around in seemingly no pattern, forming patterns and then abandoning them just as quickly. Will started fortifying an iron defense and then resorted to moving his own pieces aimlessly, attempting to feel secure in a very odd position. He had nothing to play off of and nothing was happening. Soon white and black spread all across the board in disarray, enough to make Will’s eyes hurt if he tried to make heads or tails of every single piece. There seemed to be no sense in any of it, but that was what was so nerve-wracking.

Hannibal knew that Will could feel his eyes on him in the intervals but he didn’t mind; or if he did he didn’t say anything. But there was only so far Hannibal felt he could go, not to gorge himself if he fell down that dangerous slope down Will’s jawline to his neck and further, but to patiently savor the delicate profile he had. He could see now Will’s eyes were a cloudy green, like something lay obscured inside them.

Finally Will snapped and took Hannibal’s bishop with his knight. Hannibal took the knight and it was a rapid slaughter of piece after piece after piece until both of them retreated. And although Hannibal had lost his fair share in the battle, he carried on in his meaningless moves as if nothing had happened.

(From underneath that thick cover of hair Hannibal watched the shadows it made on his pale skin, like trees on the grass. It was strange that there was little sun coming through the tall windows in the office but that Will seemed to produce his own sun, and therefore his own shadows.)

Will was beginning to copy him by gathering his pieces around the very center of the board, defending himself and barricading his king securely in the back. His pieces were even more evenly spread out than Hannibal’s own, making for an impenetrable defense. Analyzing their places, Hannibal was impressed by how secure yet versatile Will remained. If he wanted to and he acted aggressively enough, he could have launched a nearly indefensible attack against Hannibal’s king. Hannibal set the web, but inside it Will maneuvered brilliantly. However, it was still Hannibal’s web.

(The lines of his face and paleness of his skin weren’t just pretty—they caressed the eye.)

Hannibal put a pawn out in an especially vulnerable spot and that was the tipping point. Will took it, Hannibal responded, and Will moved his queen to steal a vital rook. No more slaughter followed, but Will was now intruding quickly into Hannibal’s territory.

(When a breath escaped Will’s lips Hannibal felt the phantom heat just reach him—heat he knew that had risen from the boy’s lungs, through his throat, lighting his mouth from the inside like a blazing furnace.)

Will was closing in dangerously. Hannibal moved idly once again. All of their pieces were spread out so evenly that Will had no trouble calling his rook down to put the white king in a horrible position and in a flash he was two moves away from a victory.

(It was enough to make his skin crawl.)

Hannibal moved his bishop one square. “Checkmate.”

Will already had his hand outstretched to make his next move and froze in mid-air. He analyzed the board and then realized that Hannibal’s bishop and pawn had had the black king in a tight lock for probably half the game, but Will couldn’t even remember how those had gotten there.

He silently slid back into his chair as it hit him that the game had long been over before he knew what he was even playing.

"You play very well,” Hannibal said.

"Thanks,” Will replied, but there was no traceable emotion on his face. “I thought you were going to let me win."

“Would you have liked me to?”

“No.”

“I had the feeling you would know it wasn’t a fair win.”

Will didn't respond right away. He stood up and leaned over the board for a bird’s eye view, trying to work out how the loss snuck up on him so suddenly. “Can we play again?”

“I'd love to.”

Will was black again but he chose a Sicilian Defense, showing that he was willing to be more aggressive than the last time. Hannibal decided to fight him for the middle and they had a fast-paced rapport of offensive organization until Will launched a sudden king-hunt, with a shocking amount of ruthlessness for a boy who said so little and revealed even less. However, Hannibal had been planning for this shift in attention and in advance planned a much quicker end game for Will’s king. White checkmates black.

“You must be a good psychiatrist,” Will said suddenly, as they were resetting for the third game.

“Why’s that, my boy?”

“You get into people’s heads.”

They played their next game similarly to the first, though not as slow, with most of the time spent calculating around short intervals of bloodshed. There was no conversation but there was a clear dialogue.

Then Will spoke up, as he moved a piece: "I like this better than Ms. Carrie.”

“Is she your regular babysitter?” Hannibal asked.

“Yeah.”

Hannibal smiled. “You’re always welcome here, my boy.”

"Okay. But I’ll start winning next time.”

“I’m looking forward to that.”

They never finished their third game. Vincent came back shortly before 4:10, thanked Hannibal for his kindness, took Will, and left. Hannibal looked forward to when they might see each other again, but Vincent assured him that next week that they had found Will a newer—better—babysitter. The last one had been flighty and not very sympathetic to Will’s situation. This new girl was much kinder and more reliable, so Vincent was sure all would be well going forth and they would be less of an imposition in the future.

That was four years ago.


	2. Two

**Waltz No. 2 (Shostakovich)**

The Copycat murders ceased abruptly after Vincent brought his son to the appointment, but the effects outlived the case. Week after week Vincent continued to come to Dr. Lecter’s office as his off-the-books patient, but over time Hannibal started to see that the venus fly trap was closing. Again, Vincent went in the reverse expected order.

During his mild days he was a bit jumpy, uncomfortable around a large crowd, and his conversations with Will were placid. At his worst he was intellectually obsessive and emotionally absent. Everything else in his life took a backseat to whatever murderer he was tracking down, and he became forgetful to the point where Hannibal advised he keep a paper on his bathroom sink and check off the times at which he took his anti-anxiety medication, so he didn’t forget or double-dose.

Unfortunately, his addictive nature made him nearly a genius at his job, so there was little incentive to fix himself and Mr. Crawford didn’t push him too hard in that direction either. Cases kept getting solved at light speed so neither one of them saw any real issue, and Hannibal couldn’t force his patients to take his advice. It was one of the few things out of his control. They got a year into their appointments with little progress, and Dr. Lecter knew that if Vincent’s job was both giving him this false sense of control while slowly sucking it away it was only a matter of time before something snapped.

It happened one day while Vincent was investigating a crime scene. The sky was horribly overcast and spread its grey tone over the backyard lawn and the whole suburban neighborhood like a bad omen. Hannibal watched Vincent from a distance as he stared hard into the victim’s lifeless eyes. Everybody knew not to interrupt him when he was like this because it wasn’t just an analysis, it was a conversation. Looking into the victims eyes allowed Vincent to see what they saw and put himself in their skin. It looked like any minute he might start nodding and asking questions; taking notes.

His phone rang in his coat pocket but he was too deeply immersed in his thoughts to be affected by anything living, so without looking at the caller or shifting his attention from the victim at all Vincent fished the phone out of his pocket and held it to his ear. “Hello?” he asked. Then silence fell.

Hannibal watched it all in slow motion. Vincent slowly took the phone from his face and his eyes went past the victim’s, straight into the ground and light years away. Wordless, he stumbled away from the scene in a daze and tripped over nothing. People started to look back at him as he broke down into the first panic attack he’d experienced in years.

Afterward they learned that in that moment, he’d received the news from the police that his older sister had passed away suddenly in a house fire sparked by faulty electrical wiring. There rarely went a session where Vincent didn’t mention her at some point, and she had died on the way to the hospital.

Luckily, the only person who truly knew how to bring him back to center happened to be there too. To Jack Crawford it was like watching someone defuse a bomb from the inside out. Hannibal came to Vincent’s side without an ounce of panic or uncertainty, and his composure acted as a buoy until his patient stabilized and he helped him back to the car.

Even clearer to Mr. Crawford was that this kind of life wasn't sustainable, not for the FBI and not for Vincent. So the next day, when Vincent came back expecting to return to work like nothing had happened, Jack sat him down in his office to demand he take a month off at least. Loud words were exchanged. Vincent stuck it out for longer than he knew he could win, and eventually he gritted his teeth and stormed out of the office, slamming the door behind him.

But as Vincent dropped the source of his anxiety and opened the door to the most guarded parts of his psyche, Hannibal finally had the opportunity to enter and for real change to start taking place. They increased their conversations to every other day and devoted them to sorting out health coping mechanisms and devising how Vincent could keep from suffocating himself inside his own head. While before the idea of putting those issues out into the open had made Vincent want to throw up his defenses, he began to ease into it. He began looking forward to the vulnerability and the rare opportunity to relinquish his need for control. He was increasingly invigorated by the conversations they could have; the intuitive order with which Hannibal conducted them.

If psychiatry was a dance, their sessions could vary from an allegretto trill to the slow Chopin medleys Hannibal introduced him to to calm his mind in the worst of moments; speeding, slowing, rising, and falling like a pair of lungs. The two players had to be in perfect step, too, sensing each other’s movements and adjusting to the tempo they both had a hand in leading. Their appointments were easily the most exciting hours in Vincent’s schedule during the few months he was away from his job and finding a sense of peace he’d forgotten about. It was a relief to be able to focus on himself and his son apart from every other aspect of his life. Eventually Hannibal approved him to return to his job, and after a short relapse and some difficulty, he had Vincent on a straight and healthy course.

All of this was so effective that within four years, Vincent’s appointments with Dr. Lecter decreased from every other day back to twice a week, to once, until they finally went away completely. Four years after they had begun, Vincent was back in reality.

And in four years, Will was a teenager.

Sightings of the boy were rare. Dr. Lecter visited his patient’s house a few times, on the rare occasion when Vincent was sick or tied up in a project of some sort. Technically it crossed the boundaries between doctors and their patients but it was such a convenience that neither of them minded.

Hannibal came to the Graham house early one day due to a tight schedule. He was served some French roast coffee that smelled as fresh as the forest that engulfed the house from outside and sat down with Vincent to have a peaceful talk. Sun beams gleamed through the windows, making the wood grain sparkle with orange and yellow like little threads of fire.

It was early enough that Hannibal wasn’t sure if Will was awake. Then, at 10:00 he heard the barely audible click of a door on the second floor, but Vincent didn’t seem to notice it as he fell briefly silent and sipped his coffee in the cup wrapped in a crochet cozy. A few moments passed while the quiet creaking grew louder, and from the top of the stairs, 10-year-old Will appeared mid-yawn. A pair of paw-printed sweatpants hung off his hips untied at the middle, with no shirt on top. Will was exhausted, rubbing his eyes with the back of his hand and it was only when he happened to peer down that he realized Dr. Lecter was sitting on the couch across from his father and staring right at him. They made eye contact—for the first time. Will stopped dead in his tracks halfway down the staircase.

His face and bare chest were so pale that he immediately flushed redder than Hannibal thought a human being could turn. The boy turned away, muttered an apology, and awkwardly rushed back up to his room.

Vincent covered his face and laughed. “I’m sorry. I must’ve forgotten to tell him…”

Hannibal chuckled softly and watched the empty staircase while the door slammed shut. “It’s alright.”

The episode stayed with him, but there was another time about a year after that that stayed with him even more.

The Grahams lived in a secluded spot of the deep woods with only a few houses within reasonable walking distance. Whenever Hannibal happened to visit there was always a dog or two outside that ran up to greet him as when he walked up the wooden porch steps. There was no real backyard; the forest was their backyard. It was a glad coincidence that a girl Will’s age, Alana, lived only a short walk away if Will took a winding path through the woods from his back porch. Sometimes he spent entire days there, so when Hannibal came to visit Vincent one day and Vincent said Will was with Alana, Hannibal didn’t expect to see him at all.

It was a surprise to him when he left through the front door and saw a small form on the lawn in the midst of the sea of green. Will was sitting on the lawn with his dog curled up next to him. The sun turned his chocolate brown hair to a hazel and he looked as transient as if, encapsulated in an invisible dome beyond the driveway, he existed in a world all of his own.

**Gymnopédie No. 1 (Satie)**

Hannibal couldn’t tell if he had been noticed at first. Will was busy watching another one of his dogs running across the lawn after a rope he had presumably just thrown for him—no acknowledging glance for the man who at this point, Hannibal knew, was a complete stranger. A healthy color flushed Will’s cheeks full of life. He was wearing a flannel shirt remarkably similar to the one Hannibal saw him in when they first met, this time with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows. Although his glowing pale skin stood out in the midst of the grass he was as still and natural as if he was rooted into the soil, rocking passively with the plants and the tree leaves that rustled above him. He looked at home in the sun.

Hannibal was slowly making his way to his car while he watched Will’s Bernese Mountain Dog retrieve the rope in his jaws and race back to his owner. Will pushed himself onto his hands and knees and grappled for the rope as soon as the dog was within an arm’s distance. (It was clear then where the grass stains on Will’s knees came from.) Will and his dog tugged and fought for it for a second—the dog nearly pulled him off balance and Will had to struggle to keep from falling on his stomach. Hannibal had one hand on his car door when Will finally got ahold of the toy and hastily threw it in the same direction as before.

It happened to sail into the driveway that time, a few paces from the back tire of Hannibal’s car. The dog was bounding his way over to it, but Hannibal had plenty of time to close the rest of the distance and bend down to scoop up the toy long before the dog arrived, barking eagerly at his heels. It jumped for the rope and Hannibal held it just out of his reach.

He continued his possession of the toy as he crossed the lawn over to where Will sat, his attention finally captured. When Hannibal arrived at a safe distance away, he knelt down and offered him the rope. Will regarded it cautiously at first as if he wasn’t sure whether or not to accept it. Eventually, he did.

"What are their names?"

“This is Max,” Will said, to the dog bowing next to him and begging for the rope back. Max finally got his teeth around one end with his teeth and clenched tighter as Will shook it back and forth. “That’s Winston,” he said, nodding to the dog who was leaving Will’s lap to sniff the strange man taking a seat next to them.

Hannibal pet Winston’s head as the curious dog poked his nose around and into his sleeve. "They’re beautiful animals,” he said.

“Thanks.” Will continued to tug the rope back and forth and Max growled playfully from behind his bared teeth. Finally Will got it loose and threw it across the lawn, farther than last time and closer to the treeline.

"Some say that dogs are easier to be with than humans,” Hannibal said.

"They are," Will agreed. "I understand them better."

"And they understand you."

"Yeah." Winston trotted back to his owner and curled up next to him, laying his head on the boy’s leg. Will wrapped one arm around Winston and scratched him under his neck. The dog loved that; his eyes squinted shut and his body relaxed.

"I’ve never been much of an animal person, myself," Hannibal said. He wiped his brow that was already starting to show signs of perspiration. The sun on the black fabric made him stand out as startlingly amidst the lawn like the moon in an eclipse. “But I do have an appreciation.”

"You like humans, then."

“Not at all.”

Will’s mouth twitched in a crooked smile. “But your job is talking to people.”

“Socializing is an acquired taste.”

"Then why pick a job where you have to be social?”

"It’s…" Hannibal trailed off. He had to think about this very carefully. In truth, he had an extensive catalog of answers to every question about his job he’d ever gotten, but none of them seemed to fit this time.

Will’s small fingers traced the grass blades by his knee as Hannibal’s eyes traced his hands. His hair smelled of the same peach shampoo as before, likely a different brand but nevertheless it was the same scent. He clearly enjoyed a routine, or his father did. Will’s head came up when Max raced back with the rope in his jaws. It was a little easier for Will to take it this time; they fought briefly and then Will got to throw it again. Max scampered off.

"It’s a different way of connecting,” Hannibal replied. “Psychiatry allows me to feel as if I understand and connect with people while still keeping them at an arm’s distance.”

“The illusion of intimacy.”

“Exactly.”

“How do you do that?” Will’s head shifted to the side like he was intending to look Hannibal in the eye, but stopped short.

“It requires a certain detachment that I think your empathy thwarts.” He paused, thinking. “Empathy is an enviable trait, even if it has its drawbacks.”

“It's like—like, trying to talk underwater. You can hear shapes but not so perfectly. It’s echolocation but worse, if that makes sense.”

“It does. Sound travels faster and louder underwater; I imagine that fits into the analogy as well.”

“Yeah.” Will smiled again and shook like he was laughing. His words always came out disjointed and choppy like they were missing the links that put them together in a sentence, but it was clearly not due to a lack of intelligence. Hannibal thought of throwing a line in a swift current, struggling to hook a fish in the roaring waters. “I think you’re right—that I don’t—can’t fake it. Have an illusion of intimacy.”

“You’re very lucky.”

“Am I?”

The sound of paws pattering on the ground reached their ears and they turned to see a different dog, a brown and white pitbull mix, running back to them excitedly with the rope in his mouth. Max was hot on his heels.

“Oh, that’s Harley,” Will said.

“How many dogs do you have?” Hannibal asked.

“Just these three. My dad said I could maybe have another for my fourteenth birthday.”

“What breed?”

“A Chesapeake Bay Retriever.”

“Ah. A hunting dog.”

“Exactly.”

Will still had Winston sleeping on his lap so Hannibal pushed himself up, crawled a distance on his hands and knees and grabbed the rope in Harley’s mouth. He tugged it back and Harley growled, not ready to give it up yet. Hannibal shook the rope harder and Harley’s head whipped back and forth at the same rhythm, ears flopping. He couldn’t help but smile at the playful growls rumbling from the dog’s throat as its teeth hung onto the toy for dear life.

There was still a portion of rope between Hannibal’s fist and Harley’s head, and Max rushed over and grabbed ahold of it. Hannibal was nearly jerked out of the grip he had on it. He got up on one knee and tugged both dogs rigorously back and forth, trying to keep them busy while he stood up for better balance.

Will was watching them and Winston’s head was perked up off his knee. “I don’t think you can win,” he said.

“You might be right,” Hannibal muttered. He held onto the rope steady the best he could with one hand and decided to use the other in shrugging off his suit jacket, then he switched hands and got the other side off. Now in his shirtsleeves and vest, it was easier for him to stand up and fight the dogs for the toy, not to mention it was about half as warm. (But Will’s eyes on his body burned hotter than the sun beating on his face.)

Hannibal carried this on for a little while longer, dragging the growling dogs in a semi-circle while they continued to pull relentlessly and crouch down and shake their heads with fierce growls. Eventually he tugged the rope at the right angle that Max fell off and he was able to pull the toy from Harley’s mouth. They leapt for it again but Hannibal side-stepped to a safe distance and held the toy in front of their faces again. They nearly grasped it again and again while Hannibal took step by step back and carried on the game.

“Here!” Will called.

Hannibal saw him standing up across the lawn. He held the rope still for a moment in front of the two dogs still crouching in wait, tails wagging furiously. As soon as they leapt for it, Hannibal turned and threw the toy to Will.

Will caught it and waited as the dogs registered what trick had been played on them. Hannibal smiled and held both his hands open in front of him until Max and Harley looked behind them and raced to their owner. It wasn’t long before Will was running back and forth trying to evade them.

Once Max got the rope in his jaws first, he was strong enough to yank Will forward for a brief second. Will had to keep moving frantically through the grass to keep Harley from getting it, too. He stumbled as he pulled back too hard while shaking the toy but he was able to get it out of Max’s mouth. He darted sideways frantically a little ways before he threw it back to Hannibal. The dogs left him and raced each other to get to it first.

A few minutes later of the back-and-forth they tossed the rope away for the dogs to play with by themselves. Hannibal walked back to their previous spot on the grass, moving his jacket aside to sit back down. It looked as if the grass parted just for him.

Will plopped down a foot or two away, sighing and stroking back his hair from his forehead. “Are you sure you don’t like animals, Dr. Lecter?” he asked. His hair fell right back onto this forehead moments after he had pushed it back. The way it rested over his nose cast a light shadow over his eyes.

“I think I’m more of a cat person,” Hannibal replied.

“Mm,” Will hummed, lips curled in a smile dangerously on the edge of curt. There was judgement underlying his repose. “Cats are evil.”

“They’re just independent.”

“That’s what everyone says.”

They sat there for a while longer, watching and saying nothing. The sycamore ceiling far above them swayed back and forth with the occasional cool breeze that passed as undetected and powerlessly as time itself. Hannibal was perfectly content sitting there on the lawn with Will, feeling like a mote of dust floating in the light. A speck in the forest had no sense of time or pause, up or down, or right or wrong. Grass rustled in the distance as Harley and Max played.

Will’s mouth opened. It hovered that way for a moment, in hesitation, before then he asked, "Is my dad going to be okay?"

Hannibal watched his expression carefully, but trying to read him was like trying to see past a mirror. "That’s not your responsibility.” Will huffed a laugh that didn’t make it to his lips. “The best thing you can do for him is to keep loving him, and he’ll pull through. He’s determined to get better and I’m determined to make sure that happens. But understand above all else that nothing that’s happening right now is remotely your fault.”

Will turned his gaze to the ground and gestured something that looked a bit like a nod, but it was too subtle to tell. It might have just been the environment around him breathing; the two were indistinguishable.

Hannibal pulled his jacket onto his lap and found his wallet in the inside pocket, with a few of his cards inside, and a small emergency pencil from his breast pocket. "This is my business card," he said as Will watched him write something on the back of the card. "It includes my email, office location and phone number. However," he handed the card to Will, "this is my personal number. You’re always welcome to call me if you ever need help."

"Oh." Will looked it over. "With, like, homework?"

"Anything at all. If you’re worried about your father, socializing, or in an emergency. Even if that includes algebra."

"Oh.” Will traced the pencil markings with his finger. “I’m really good at algebra, though."

"I don’t doubt it."

**Gymnopédie No. 2 (Satie)**

Vincent began their next session with a statement. "You gave my son your phone number."

Hannibal replied evenly: "I did." Vincent used this strategy often. The statements were meant in neither offense nor accusation, but they were simply handed to the other person to see where they would go with them first. The reaction would indicate what they expected the statement to mean, which gave away a lot more than would be admitted in the face of a question. (He probably took it from Hannibal’s approach to psychiatry.)

"He reminds me a lot of myself, when I was young,” Hannibal said to fill the silence.

"Why your business card?"

"I understand Will already has a psychiatrist, but I saw no harm in offering my help as well. He is, after all, an integral part of your life."

"And your personal number?"

"Again, he already has a psychiatrist, he doesn’t need another. But I believe he could use a friend in case of an emergency.”

Vincent pursed his lips together and nodded slowly while he processed all of this. "He’s fond of you, you know," he said.

"Did he tell you that?"

"It was obvious. I saw you guys playing with Max and Harley. Then he kept the card in his pocket all day and had it next to his plate during dinner. Before bed he pinned it on the wall next to him. He must have the number memorized by now."

Hannibal allowed himself a slight smile. “He’s highly intelligent for his age. I’m sure you’re aware of that. Several times I caught myself forgetting I was talking to an 11-year-old.”

Vincent mirrored his smile even brighter. “Isn’t he? I feel that way myself sometimes.”

“Takes after his father.”

Vincent chuckled. “Thanks.” He was quiet again while he chewed on this and let his eyes wander around the library. Hannibal watched the minute shifts in his facial expression and saw no remaining traces of suspicion. "Did he call you?"

"He hasn’t, yet. If he does, I assure you you will come to know of it.”

After that occasion Hannibal saw Will here and there, sometimes in coming to Vincent’s house for work-related conversations or being involved with Jack and Vincent’s friendship where he got a glimpse of Will sitting in the car from afar, always behind a sheet of glass. But that was all. Will didn’t call for years.


	3. Three

**String Quartet No. 8 in C Minor Mvt. I (Shostakovich)**

Four years after their appointments began and a week after they ended, Vincent called Hannibal at three in the morning in a cold sweat. His words sounded like a knife hitting the chopping board—continuously disconnected, then bleeding into each other at an increasingly rapid speed.

After Hannibal coaxed him out of his own head and brought him down to reality, he invited himself over to Vincent’s house so they could speak in person. It was there that Vincent was calm enough to tell him the full story.

He had dreamt he was trekking in the forest at night, clutching a flashlight to find his way through the thick brush and darkness coating every inch of his vision. Nothing happened. But he was struggling to lift his feet like the snow was grappling at his boots to keep him in place, or worse, drag him underneath. It was getting harder and harder to walk. Vincent woke up with a feeling of immediate death tearing at him and his first instinct was to reach for the phone and call Dr. Lecter.

At four in the morning, with the sky dead and trees scraping the window, they sat in Vincent’s living room in the low light of just a few lamps. Vincent was worried to wake Will up and had taken the tea kettle off the stove before it started to whistle. Hannibal arrived as Vincent had finished his first glass and took it up to refill it himself and make his own. Now Vincent was holding a hot mug to his chest and they were sitting close enough to whisper, close enough that the orange lamp light only appeared as a crescent across Vincent’s cheek.

"You don’t think I’m insane," he whispered, "do you?"

"No,” Hannibal replied. “I don’t.”

"Why not?"

"You have more than enough intelligence to be insane,” he explained, “but too much insecurity to let it happen.”

Vincent smiled while he stared down at his hands. "Thanks. I think.”

Hannibal stared at them, too. They were growing older it seemed by the moment. It hadn’t escaped him that Vincent’s hair was streaked increasingly with grey, too, thinning at his temples. "Are you feeling better?" he asked.

"Yeah, I am.” Vincent breathed out a sigh as the woods surrounding his house shook harder with the fierce wind. He was grateful that Hannibal was there as his tether or else he felt he might have blown away with it. “I’m sorry for calling you so late. This is—you know this—this is unusual.”

"It’s not a problem."

Vincent sat back against the couch cushion, closing his eyes like he was about ready to sleep again. “I’m honestly thinking we should resume our talks again,” he said. “I thought I was doing fine and you gave me your okay, but with tonight… I’m not asking, I was just wondering if we should put that option back on the table.”

"We’re talking right now."

"You know what I mean."

"I do, and we can consider the idea further, but not right now,” Hannibal replied. He leaned in closer to counterbalance Vincent’s reticence. “Perhaps revisiting the idea after you have time to take a step back would be wise.”

Vincent nodded slowly. “Right. We can talk about it more tonight, too.”

Their patient-doctor relationship had come to an end shortly before Hannibal decided to invite him and his son to his house for dinner. It would be their first time talking as friends without any professional boundaries (even the illusion of them) barring them. Vincent even felt as if after four years he had no idea who Dr. Lecter really was. It unnerved him to be weakly prying into the brain of the surgeon who already knew his veins and tendons and everything that made him human as well as Vincent knew the sound of his doctor’s voice.

Vincent’s eyes glinted in the weak light, finally coming up to meet Hannibal’s. “I just don’t want to be calling you at three in the morning to use you for a counselor,” he whispered, “and then tell Jack I’m a perfectly functioning human being.”

"I appreciate that, but if we’re both being honest, this stopped being about Jack quite a while ago."

They stared at each other in silence. The unseen forest shivered outside.

**Les Dragons d’Alcala (from Carmen, Bizet)**

That night, Dr. Lecter’s heart was settled just as a predator stalking his prey through the grass stills his heartbeat. The pop of the frying pan and the scrap of a knife against the cutting board rippled through him like a gentle vibration that he would neither repress nor attempt to rile. This was perhaps also part of the effect that classical music had on him. When the music traveled through speakers around the house in nearly every room, every move felt like gliding. Hannibal bathed in the sensation for hours so that when the Grahams’ arrival at seven his house was fully marinated in this unbearable lightness.

It was past five minutes from seven that the doorbell rang. Music to his ears. Hannibal crossed the distance from the kitchen to the breezeway, stopping on the way at the control panel to scroll through his playlist, select another song and lower the volume appropriately. Then, after checking his hair and tie briefly in a mirror, he walked to the entryway and opened the front door.

Vincent broke into a smile as soon as he saw him, bundled in a winter coat appropriate for the frigid night. "Hi, sorry we’re a little late."

"Hardly at all." Hannibal’s eyes shifted immediately to the shorter figure standing slightly behind his father. "Please, come in."

The two guests came in and Hannibal took their coats. "I hope the weather wasn’t an inconvenience,” he said, brushing off the thin layer of snow on the shoulders and hanging the clothing up on the rack beside the door.

"Not at all, not at all,” Vincent said. “It’s just a little bit frozen over the roads. Not so bad to drive on, but I did almost fall when I got out of the car.” He chuckled. “Lots of ice.”

“Ah, I’m sorry.”

“On behalf of the ice?”

Will had snowflakes nesting in his hair, white specks in a sea of brown. His hairstyle hadn’t changed much from the same thicket Hannibal had seen last time. The biggest change was in his facial structure; his jaw had hardened as he’d matured and his cheekbones were beginning to emerge. Still, the top of his head didn’t quite come up to Hannibal’s shoulder.

"Good evening, Will," Hannibal greeted.

He could tell by the pause in which Will searched for a response this was unexpected. "Hi. Thanks for having me."

“Of course.”

Hannibal took them down the hallway to the main room while a steady drum beat marched around them in Les Dragons d’Alcala. Gentle clarinet notes weaved their way through the various rooms in Hannibal’s house, down the stairs, over the ceiling, and snaking under the doors, creeping closer by the second. “How was your New Years?” he asked.

“Oh, it was great,” Vincent asked. He was rubbing his hands together to stir up some warmth. Luckily, Hannibal had a fireplace going in the living room that Vincent and Will sat close to on the couch when they got there. “We went to Linnet’s house and had a nice celebration. Will and Alana set off some fireworks; nothing too elaborate but we had a nice time. What about you?”

“I attended a dinner party hosted by a friend of mine,” Hannibal answered, still standing by the couch opposite his guests.

“I’m surprised you didn’t host one yourself.”

“I considered it, but I’ve been very busy with several projects so I wanted to give myself a break this year.” They exchanged kind smiles. “What would you prefer to drink?”

Vincent hummed in thought for a moment and then decided, crossing his legs and folding his hands in his lap with a certain stiffness in his arms. "I don’t know what you have and I trust your judgement, so surprise me,” he said.

"I was hoping you would say that. I did have something in mind for tonight."

Vincent raised his eyebrows. “You’ve got my expectations high.”

“I won’t disappoint. And Will?" Hannibal turned to him. "Do you trust my judgement as well?"

Will thought for a few moments, messing absentmindedly at the cuff of his navy jacket. Underneath the blazer he was wearing flannel, yet again, tucked into his belt. Finally he asked, "Do you have wine?"

"I have no shortage of that. Do you prefer red or white?"

"Red, I guess."

“Excellent choice.”

"Now hold on a moment." Vincent stared at both of them with his hand out to stop the conversation in its tracks. He laughed when his eyes met Hannibal’s. “Will has a very dry sense of humor,” he excused.

“Humor or not, it seems as if he would like some wine.”

"He’s 13.”

“Thirteen?” Hannibal looked at Will curiously. "But it was only last year you were 12."

“That's how it works,” Will replied.

"He’ll have water,” Vincent interrupted.

"Water." Hannibal nodded to Will, but he hadn’t looked up. "Alright."

A brief minute later, Hannibal returned having already poured their glasses individually and set the three of them a silver tray. He handed the first, filled with water and ice, to Will who thanked him quietly. The next was Vincent’s. "This is a 1989 Côte-Rôtie La Landonne,” Hannibal explained, sitting down and taking up his own glass. “You mentioned, Vincent, you enjoyed the velvet texture of some wines, so I expect a fine syrah will deliver.”

Vincent lifted the wine to his lips and as soon as it touched his tongue he was absorbed in the taste. "Wow,” he hummed. “That’s divine.”

Hannibal held his nose to it first and judged its aroma. “I’m glad you think so.”

“It has a bit of…” Vincent rolled his tongue over in his mouth as he searched for an answer.

“A liquorice taste, doesn’t it?” Hannibal said.

“Mm, exactly.”

“Spice, too.”

“Definitely.”

Hannibal swayed the glass in minute circles and watched the inky black liquid as it rocked back and forth. “The wines produced in the Rhône Valley in France are exceptional. The appellation is actually situated on several steep hills overlooking the river.” Vincent was nodding along, watching him attentively. “Depending on which side of the river you’re on,” Hannibal explained, “because of the difference in soils and climates, the wine will produce a certain terroir. This variety, for example, is best cultivated in the Northern region.”

“Huh. I actually studied abroad very close to there.” Vincent settled back in the couch and crossed his legs. “Have you heard of Aix-en-Provence?”

“I have. That’s near Marseille, isn’t it?”

“Mhm. Studied there for a semester or two in graduate school.”

“How did you enjoy it?” Hannibal asked, finally taking a sip of his wine for what Will noticed to be the first time. He spent so much time surveying it before he finally tasted.

“Oh, it’s a gorgeous town. Personally I liked it a lot better than Paris when I visited, not to be elitist. I loved Paris, but the further you travel from it and the deeper you get into the countryside, the air is more open. I mean it tastes cleaner, free from all the smog of the inner city.”

“Explains why you chose the house you did.”

Vincent laughed. He pressed the back of his hand to his cheek, Will noticed. They were likely still cold from the below-freezing weather outside, so his cheeks must have been exceptionally warm. “Yeah, no, you’re right,” he said.

While talking, they tried to stay away from Vincent’s work and other uncomfortable topics. Even so, Hannibal could tell when Vincent was beginning to withdraw. He started shaking subtly. He was paler than normal. His breaths were short and shallow.

Ten minutes passed, and eventually Vincent gave into the anxiety and stood up. "Sorry, Hannibal, I—I’m feeling a little dizzy," he said.

“I can see that. Do you need some water?”

"No, I’m fine—can I just step outside real quick?”

"Of course." Hannibal gestured to the entryway and Vincent thanked him and apologized profusely as he passed. He took his coat off the hook beside the door and slipped outside.

When they heard the click of the front door, the house felt one body emptier. Vincent’s presence was sucked out as quickly as it had entered, then they were alone. And in those few moments after the door closed, a new song, Beethoven’s Kreutzer, waltzed into the room with the delicate yet passionate crooning of a violin chord. The timing was impeccable—Hannibal could plan many things, but not this.

**“Kreutzer” (Beethoven)**

Such a turn of events must have been awkward for Will at first. Hannibal was set to relieve them both of such a mood, but before he had a chance to take the initiative, though, Will beat him to it.

"You have a beautiful house.”

Hannibal broke into an unexpected gentle smile. "Thank you, Will,” he said. “But I’m worried you feel obligated by etiquette to say that."

Will blinked, recalibrating after Hannibal’s words threw him off. "Sh-should I tell you it’s ugly?" he asked.

"If that’s your honest opinion."

"Well, it’s…" Will glanced around, from the mantel above the crackling fireplace to the vase of flowers by the doorway. White lilies. "I mean, uh..." But his attention was pulled out of his reach again and again even as he attempted to hold onto it.

"Is the music distracting?"

Will nodded quickly. A small breath escaped from his mouth in relief of not having to speak out about it himself. "Yeah."

"I apologize." Hannibal set his wine down on the table and got up from his seat to adjust the control panel on the wall. The violin cut off on a high b-flat. "I don’t wish to make you uncomfortable."

"No, it’s okay—I’m fine as—when it’s turned down really low. It creates a nice ambiance, but I can’t focus with too many sounds at once. Sorry."

"There’s nothing to be sorry for. If anything else here makes you uneasy, please let me know.” Hannibal sat back down on the sofa and crossed his legs, hands joined in his lap. "You were saying, about my house?"

Will pursed his lips. "I shouldn’t insult you."

"But I’m inviting you to."

"No, really."

But no matter how much Will tried to force his head to lift up, it wouldn’t listen. His eyes happened to fall on Hannibal’s glass and stayed there since it felt safe. His heart beat unreasonably fast. On the drive over, his dad had reminded him several times about how important making eye contact was, and how uninviting it was when he was fidgeting.

_“Well, honestly, I think you have a hard time making friends because you don’t show an interest in it.”_

Hannibal’s gentle voice interrupted his thoughts. "Will, do you know how many people are going to tell me if my cooking tastes terrible or if there’s something in my teeth? I appreciate a good sentiment, but I’m much fonder of honesty."

Will couldn’t help it when a genuine choppy laugh bubbled up from his chest. "Okay, well, uh, you asked for it." He moved from his glass to look around the living room. "It really is interesting," he said, and paused slightly, "but it’s..." His eyes stuck on the Christmas tree sitting in the corner of the room, with its white lights glinting off tinsel and the glass ornaments.

“That tree is unnerving,” he muttered, half to himself. Hannibal twisted sideways to face the tree himself. “It looks nice, actually, when you’re not really looking at it. With the blue-green color scheme and the white lights and the tinsel, it’s very, you know, upper-class festive. But all the ornaments are those traditional round types, or the cone-shaped ones. Nothing personalized. And that’s it—the whole place is so clean and perfect, but when you take a second and you think past all the tinsel and the fluff and the nice music and the expensive wine, it’s not really a home, it’s a display case. Shallow. Calculated. There’s nothing in here that gives you, y’know, personality. But that’s your whole general attitude, too. You like to hear yourself talk and you like it when my dad compliments you—oh, this wine is so amazing, Dr. Lecter you have such refined taste. I don’t know, it’s all so fake and superficial and I just don’t find you all that interesting.”

Dead silence followed his words, save for the fireplace crackling.

“Please, go on,” Hannibal prompted.

“Go on?” Will smiled cruelly. He turned back to Hannibal who was already facing him wearing his full attention on his sleeve. “Are you enjoying this?”

“You said that I haven’t marked my environment with—or indicated in my conversations with your father—any sort of personality. And you’re correct. That’s not to say I don’t have one, just that I’ve tailored my actions not to show it.”

Will looked down into the glass of water. Drops of condensation were starting to form on the outside as the ice melted. “Well I guess it’s only fair that if, if you’re not really yourself right now, that any insult or compliment I give you won’t have any impact,” he said. “I can go on with the disclaimer that no matter what happens, I know absolutely nothing about you.”

“I could say the same for you.” Will saw a smile out of the corner of his eye and although he’d seen it a few times that night when Hannibal was talking to his dad about this wine and that university, this time it was different. Then again, Will had to wonder if he was just interpreting it all wrong and that smile was one of pity.

_“Because you can be very off-putting to people. Hey, that’s not always a bad thing. I’m a bit of an acquired taste myself.”_

Will was quiet. For a moment he glued then tore his eyes away from Hannibal’s glass and straightened his posture when he sat back. "My dad told me specifically to compliment your home when we were in the car,” he said. “Now I’m insulting you and your house."

“I'm not offended at all.”

“Especially on that bit where I said you didn’t have a personality. I don’t know you that well so that’s not really for me to judge. We’ve only met, like twice. And a half.”

Several beats passed as Hannibal studied him; he’d kept his eyes on and around Will’s face nearly the entire time and he still didn’t feel like moving them for another hour. One moment Will’s voice was quiet and nearly whispering, the next his eyebrows would shoot up with his volume and his chest seized in a chuckle. Then his eyes would dart away like an insect in the sudden blinding light of his emotions. His voice widened and shrank and went into higher pitches that would likely drop once he hit puberty. His lips twitched in an ingenuine smile. Hannibal found himself hopping frequencies trying to keep up with the boy’s erratic changes in attitude.

He moved to the edge of his seat and offered Will his glass. "Would you like to try?" he asked.

Will’s eyes darted from the wine, to Hannibal—or, rather, the corner of his mouth—back down to the drink. "What?" he asked.

"Not only did you ask for it originally, but in avoiding my eyes your gaze always comes back to either my or your own glass. You seem to be wanting to replace one for the other with sheer willingness to turn water into wine."

Normally in this silence, the music would fill the place of conversation, not exactly to dull the stab of an awkward moment but to carry on the conversation in its own right by way of instruments and various melodies layered over one another—as layers of subtexts blend into one interaction. Will was especially susceptible to his surroundings, though, so this was not an option, but Hannibal felt the opus go on nonetheless.

Will set his water on the table next to him and leaned forward to take the glass from Hannibal. Then when he sat back, he cupped the glass in his hand for a few moments, rocking his wrist back and forth. He studied the way the liquid flowed back and forth like a psychologist discerning what makes his subject tick, relishing the texture of the strange opportunity in his eyes and in his palm. Then Will put the glass to his lips, tipped it back and the red wine flooded his mouth.

It wasn't but a moment later that he tore it away with a face scrunched in disgust. He rolled his tongue over in his mouth to rid himself of the taste, a little laugh hidden inside. "Do you want another honest opinion?” he asked, moving to the edge of his seat.

“Of course.”

“I’m convinced everybody who finds hints of licorice and spice in that is having one big shared hallucination. Folie à deux.” He handed the glass back.

“Folie, peut-être. Si c'est le cas, je devrais être arrêté.”

Will chuckled while settling back in the couch. “Jesus Christ.”

Hannibal admired the red sitting in the bottom of the glass. "You may appreciate it when you’re older." Searching closely, he found the foggy imprint of Will’s lips on the edge of the glass. He contemplated it for a moment, then covered them with his own and sipped.

All the while, he could feel Will’s stare beating on him like fire behind a closed door.

"How has your school been?" Hannibal asked, setting the glass on the table next to the couch arm. He folded his hands in his lap. "You’re in the seventh grade now, aren’t you?"

"Did you give me alcohol to butter me up for conversation?"

“Perhaps.”

Will gave a smile, eyes down. He was unknowingly copying Hannibal’s position now: he crossed one leg over the other and put his hands in his lap. "School’s fine.”

“You have a science fair coming up, don’t you?”

“Yeah.” Will nodded. “It’s—yeah, I’m excited about it.”

“Regionals?”

“Yeah. Last year Alana and I went to state. Didn’t place but hopefully we’ll get another chance this time. Regionals are in Richmond so my dad might not be able to take me this year either, but, you know. It’s a good time still.”

“I'm sure if you accomplish an extraordinary thing like that he can work something out.”

Silence rang as Will threw down a wall between them without saying a single word.

_“We’ll cross that bridge when we come to it, how about that? Don’t look at me like that. You know I have priorities.”_

Unexpectedly, a bitter smile streaked across Will’s mouth, like the rise of a whip. His words were the snap. “You attract uncomfortable topics like a light attracts flies,” he said.

Hannibal was glowing from the sting. “I suppose I can’t help myself.”

_“I don’t mean—no, I don’t mean work is more important than you. Of course it’s not. You know that.”_

“But I am sorry,” Hannibal backpedaled. “I can imagine you're tired of hearing about him.”

Will wanted to move on, but he knew there was more behind those words and he couldn’t suppress his curiosity. Not to mention that it was now clear it was impossible for them to make small talk with each other, merely scrape the surface without unearthing some skeleton by accident. “What do you mean?” he asked.

“I know you're not blind to your father’s mental state. He has a lot of weight on his shoulders, carrying both his job and his well-being, but he’s different from you in that you seem uncomfortable with talking about your life while he finds it easy to focus on himself.”

“Yeah, he’s practically a genius at it.” Will’s blunt and sudden laughter was infectious and Hannibal was in deep danger of catching it. “Sorry,” he pulled himself back together quickly, “that was mean. I know he’s going through a lot.”

“Is this not the same line of reasoning with which you criticized my house?”

“What do you mean?”

“While I arrange my environment to obscure my personality in glamour and prestige, you do so in your thinking, using empathy to push your emotions under the surface,” Hannibal explained.

Several moments passed in silence while Will thought about this, playing idly with the button of his sleeve cuff again. His voice was cold when he replied, “You’re not my psychiatrist, you know.”

Hannibal bowed his head in apology. “No, but perhaps my first instinct in a conversation is to search for the intricacies in others’ behavior.”

“And exploit them?”

“Sometimes, yes.”

Will’s eyes wandered around the room again while he sat further back in his seat. He was getting more comfortable in his environment. His eyes went up and down the fake Christmas tree again, glimmering with tinsel but still so tidy. The only thing out of place in the whole house, it seemed, was the one stray hair lying slanted across Hannibal’s forehead, and surely that was intentional. “That’s why your house is so clean,” Will said, as if he were talking aloud to himself. Hannibal felt like a bystander. “You know, I can deal with people being fake and living to impress. It’s not my business. But it’s another animal when someone does it with this underlying _awareness_ to it. Control. That’s probably why you’re so good at dinner parties—because you’re good at planning. That’s in part why you’re a psychiatrist. You _exude_.. control.”

“Despite your discomfort in being the victim of analysis, you seem to be quite acute with your own analysis,” Hannibal answered. “Could it be that you like to be in control also?”

Will laughed. “Not at all. I’m on the defense,” he replied as he took a sip of his water.

“When did I attack you, my boy?”

“It’s not a… a _verbal_ attack, or anything you did specifically. I think it’s, intuitively, the sort of aura you give off is very intense. Inviting but intense. You take us into your house and it’s like a predator luring prey into his space.”

“Perhaps it's not only me giving off this attitude, but also you who feels as if he is the prey.”

Will thought it was appropriate in this conversation over prey and predator that his heart was drumming with the burning urge to fight or flight. He picked up his glass again to desperately give his hands something to do. “Maybe we’re both right.”

“What is your father, then, in this scenario?”

“He’s prey, too.”

“What animal?”

“I'm a deer,” Will answered. “My dad’s a rabbit.”

“Fascinating. How is this?”

“You think I can explain my own metaphors?”

Hannibal smiled to himself and laughed behind closed lips.

“Do people usually do this?” Will asked and he couldn’t help catching the smile too, like a contagion. It spread to his cheeks and revealed his dimples. “Psychoanalyze you right back?”

“Yes, often. But never so accurately.”

“Thanks.”

“You’re welcome. What animal am I?”

“Unidentified.”

Hannibal studied Will’s eyelids as the boy stared down into his glass again, hoping that the condensation would spell out the answer for him—and maybe the question too. But the ice was melting; the crescents were just slivers thin enough to dissolve on the heat of his tongue.

“We’re not,” Will began tentatively and stopped. Dead silence followed. “If I told you something personal, you wouldn’t tell my dad, right?”

“Of course not, my boy.”

“What we say in this room stays in this room?”

“You have my word.”

Hannibal’s voice was secure and for some reason Will didn’t doubt a single thing he said. But he needed a few seconds to bundle up his thoughts and in that time he idly tucked a hair behind his ear; sat hunched over disappearing into his thoughts.

“Okay, well.” Will took an unsteady breath in preparation. “I got invited to a party," he said. "A high school party. A—you know, for me that's a lot. I barely know middle school, being in special ed and all. The guy, the one who invited me, he’s been nice to me a lot for some reason. Finding excuses to talk to me at lunch and offering to drive me home. He told me he could borrow his brother’s car and take me to the party tomorrow, but I said no. And Alana said it’s a bad idea, because yeah, obviously, it is…”

"But you want to go anyway," Hannibal finished.

The corner of Will’s mouth twitched and hesitated. “I’m not sure, really.”

“What do you predict are this boy’s intentions?”

Will glanced up, confused. “What do you mean?”

“You’re not in his social group. Perhaps he has an ulterior motive.”

“Like…”

“Could he be flirting with you?”

Will turned beet red. “I’m not gay.”

“I didn’t say you were.”

Will sucked in a breath. “Well, I mean..” He fidgeted with the cuff of his shirt, where his eyes were locked, and chuckled stiffly. “True.”

Hannibal cocked his head at him as if studying him from another angle would give him a new insight. “There's nothing wrong with it.”

“I know, I agree. I'm just not, personally. And I don’t think he’s—Luke’s not, either. He’s the type that makes fun of gay kids if anything.” Will put the brake on his thoughts and tried to regain the same confidence he’d had before. “I’m more worried about him bringing me there just to humiliate me in some form or fashion, but still. I guess it’s just a ‘curiosity killed the cat’ sort of thing.”

"I can relate with some experiences of my own."

“You went to parties?"

“I found them useful in learning about others’ behavior,” Hannibal admitted.

Will raised his eyebrows. "Like an anthropologist.”

“Like an introvert hoping to blend into his environment.”

“Aren’t they the same thing?”

Hannibal smiled. "You’re right. But your situation is a bit different than mine. My difficulties stemmed from not being able to connect emotionally with others. I engaged in the same pleasures with them to pretend I was like them when I lacked the ability to connect on a human level. It was also an opportunity to find my own independence rather than cower and wait for it to be handed to me. It was liberating to experiment, even if I put myself at risk.”

“Experiment?”

“With drugs, sex; alcohol. Although I'm fortunate to have stopped the worst one of those vices.”

“I’m assuming that’s,” Will’s eyes went to Hannibal’s lap, where his glass sat, “drugs.”

“You’re correct.”

Will laughed, raising a hand to press something cold to his burning cheeks. “I don’t know why that’s so ironic to me.”

Hannibal smiled back and something about it made Will’s stomach turn. “If you do end up attending this party, however, I would advise you reject anything stronger than marijuana. There’s a chance it could make you twice as anxious as you normally are and there’s also a chance it would make you sociable. Just make sure you’re in a safe environment. As you said: curiosity killed the cat. But satisfaction brought it back.”

Will closed himself away for a moment as he took this in. It wasn’t a physical change, but Hannibal felt his mind drift away and then the overpowering presence of its return when Will smiled slightly down at the couch arm. "Careful, Dr. Lecter," he said. Suddenly he was calmer and his words mockingly tender, but his eyes—less tender, more mocking. He assumed a tone Hannibal couldn’t imagine came out of that young mouth. "It’s starting to sound like you want me to go to that party."

“I want what’s best for you, my boy.”

Will turned his eyes up and for the first time that night they made direct eye contact, an extremely delicate thing. “And what’s that?”

“Whatever you wish it to be. I want to know, what would you do if there was nothing holding you back?” Hannibal asked. He sat forward in his seat. “If your father, money, your own fears, society all never had a hold on you, what would you do?”

Will inhaled a breath and inflated with the possibilities. His heart still pounded neurotically and overwhelmed him so that he had to break the eye contact, though he regretted it immediately afterward. “I don’t know,” he muttered, looking up at the ceiling briefly and baring his throat. “You mean in my entire life?”

“Not as if you get just one wish.”

“That’s right, I get three, don’t I?”

“You take me for a genie?”

Will brought his head level again and stared Hannibal in the eyes for the second time that night, with no fear present. “You’re starting to sound like one,” he said.

“I don’t believe in limiting yourself.”

Will leaned forward. He wanted to see Hannibal’s eyes _deeper_ , and pull out more from inside. “From what, exactly?” he asked.

Hannibal smiled, a thousand times more unsettling than the last time. “Are you sure this is self-defense?” he asked.

Will chuckled.

Down the hall, the front door clicked open.

Will settled back into the couch and looked away, wiping his mouth with his sleeve like he had wine smeared all over it. Hannibal watched the entrance as Vincent’s footsteps grew louder, and finally he came into the living room.

"Sorry about that,” Vincent sighed. He looked much less pale than before. “I’ve been feeling a little strange all day. Slept horribly last night.”

"Nothing to worry about,” Hannibal replied. It was as if he had flipped a light switch and slipped on a new personality before Will’s very eyes. It was so sudden of a change it nearly gave him whiplash. “We were just talking about Will’s school.”

“Oh, good." Vincent looked relieved and hung up his coat.

"However, we can always do that more over dinner.”

“That sounds great. I’m starting to get hungry.” As they made their way to the dining room, it took Vincent no time at all to detect a slight change in his environment and he looked around the room for an idea. “Did the music go off?” he asked.

“Yes,” Hannibal said, standing up and buttoning his jacket. “There was a malfunction in the sound system.”

Several years ago after they had played tug-of-war with Harley and Max, Will had a strange feeling about the whole afternoon. No matter how many times he looked over the business card Dr. Lecter had written his number on, he couldn’t make sense of it. The grooves of the pencil marks told him nothing about the smoke that filled his head, suffocating him in the kind of nervous and unsafe he couldn’t stop obsessing over. The kind of dread he didn’t want to crawl out of.

At the beginning of the current night he wondered if that was an exaggeration, since everything felt relatively normal. It seemed like nothing but meaningless small talk between two adults. But the moment Vincent closed the door and left them alone a new energy consumed him. He found that the afternoon several years ago was actually tame considering how Will felt now like he’d been to hell and back.

_“Just try to be nice, alright?”_

The rest of the dinner went smoothly. Vincent seemed like he’d calmed down, and the tiny bit of nerves Hannibal observed in how he wrung his hands and in his frequent blinking dwindled in no time after some pleasant conversation. Meanwhile, Will made himself practically invisible. Hannibal drew him into the discussion a few times and Will politely pulled himself back out. He ducked and slipped past him.

When Will was prompted, he was beautifully awkward; sprinkling his own little bit of subversive charm into his speech. That and his stuttering. The odd pauses and jolts between words hinted at something perhaps quaking underneath his speech. More than anything, Hannibal’s ears thirsted to hear the moment when Will’s voice suddenly became smooth as ice and everything his eyes touched was his. It was chilling. Hannibal could just eat him up.

"Oh, I almost forgot.” Hannibal was over by Vincent’s seat collecting his dessert plate when Vincent put a hand on his forearm and interrupted. “I have a few things I need to talk to Hannibal about. Work-wise,” he said to his son. “Hannibal, is there any place he could stay until we’re done?"

"Yes, of course." Hannibal looked at Will. "I have a respectable collection of books in my library you might enjoy.”

“I—yes, thank you.”

“I’ll show you there." Hannibal went into the kitchen to set their plates in the sink, and when he came back out, he gestured for Will to come with him. "I’ll be just a minute," he said to Vincent, who had begun to stand up with them. "Feel free to have as much wine as you want."

Vincent nodded, turning back to his glass and taking another sip.


	4. Four

**Gnossiennes No. 1 (Satie)**

Will walked upstairs slightly behind Dr. Lecter and was grateful for the silence. He had been hoping to avoid any sort of small talk like the plague until they got to the library and Will could be alone to gather his thoughts for a little while. Originally he had wanted to avoid being alone with Hannibal at all, but he knew he didn’t have much of a choice.

"What sorts of books do you enjoy?" Hannibal asked as he led Will through the hallway on the second floor. His velvety voice nearly made Will jump.

“Um…” Will’s eyes followed the walls as they walked looking from picture to picture. All were originals captured in elaborate gold and silver frames, some oil, a few sketched. “I don’t know. That’s not the sort of thing I can really… pin down.”

They came across a particular charcoal landscape of a bare mountain terrain that captured Will’s attention in a way the others hadn’t. The staggered shape of the mountains evoked some kind of melancholy and sense of loss he couldn't place. The sky offered nothing but an austere vacuum.

Will leaned in closer to read a signature in the bottom corner. Before he could stop himself his curiosity got the better of him and he asked, “You drew this?”

“The charcoals, yes. The oils are from friends.” They started moving along while Will’s eyes lingered on that drawing, a window to another dimension. Knowing that Dr. Lecter had drawn it and that his emotions must be encapsulated in it made it that much more valuable and indecipherable.

“They’re good. The charcoals, I mean, but all of them.”

“Thank you.”

It wasn’t long before they approached another sketch that stood out from the rest. While most of the ones before had been landscapes, this charcoal revealed a beautiful young woman lying back on a river bank, nude. One leg wrapped around a swan slithering between her thighs. At the bottom it read: “Leda and the Swan.”

Will stared at it without a word until they began to walk on. “Don’t get many guests up here?” he said. Hannibal could hardly tell if it was for him or if he was simply there with the privilege of observing Will’s thoughts manifest out loud.

“I do,” he said. “But not children.”

They came upon the Victorian-style door that Will assumed would be the library as he reminded himself not to let his own doors open again.

“Although I would hesitate to call you a child,” Hannibal digressed.

“My dad always says I have the mind of a 30-year-old.”

“That’s true, but I mean physically as well.”

_“If I have the mind of a 30-year-old, dad, that means I’m almost as old as you.” He chuckled._

_“You know that’s just an expression, Will. You’re thirteen.”_

Hannibal stepped in front of him to hold the door open. Will walked in without a glance to his chauffeur. Whereas the office library had taken on a tone of art deco, the wooden bookshelves and elevated rustic smell of this piece of a castle transported him back a few centuries. It wasn’t as extensive as the office library, no doubt, but still a powerful presence washed over Will resting weightily on his shoulders.

Will processed his environment while wandering mindlessly in like he was beckoned inside. Eventually he came back up for air and looked over his shoulder at Hannibal. “Physically?” he asked him.

“You're 13, my boy. You've crossed the threshold from childhood into your teenage years.”

Will’s lips twitched in a silent humorous thought as he turned away. “You say that as if, if it’s a badge of honor,” he said, “rather than a consequence of being alive too long.”

“Contrary to popular belief, life is something that gets better as you get older.”

“Really?”

“Like wine.”

Will walked to the nearest bookshelf and examined the spines, trying to pull himself away from the conversation. It was proving harder than he thought. “I’ve heard it’s more like a rotting fruit,” he said. “You know, with how fruit is compared to youth and fertility a lot.”

“Ah, but fruit can be turned into wine.”

“Don’t grapes have to be crushed to do that?”

“Perhaps what people believe to be the crushing of youth is actually a transformation into something much grander.”

“Oho,” Will chuckled mockingly. “Very clever.” He reached out and stroked a digit down one spine, soaking its texture into the pad of his finger.

Hannibal’s eyes traced the movement. “Are you by chance drawing on the myth of Dionysus?” he asked.

“Huh? No. I’ve heard of the name but I don’t know specifics.”

“Dionysus is the Greek God of wine and fertility, just what you were picking up on.”

“Oh.” Will took the book off the shelf and unfolded it in his lap. “Happenstance I guess.”

“Or collective unconscious.”

“I _do_ know that reference.”

“I should’ve guessed.” Hannibal wandered aimlessly around the shelves nearby, letting his mind run.

There was a pause and Will wanted to take that to indicate Hannibal might be leaving, but intuitively it didn’t feel like it. Part of his intention in facing a different direction was to relieve himself of some of this anxiety crawling under his skin by ignoring Hannibal’s black eyes, but it proved to make everything worse. Not being able to see him made it impossible for Will to read his expressions. Now he was completely blind.

Will glanced out of the corner of his eye to the door when he didn’t think Hannibal was looking and found the library doors to be closed. He hadn’t remembered them shutting.

“As for Dionysus,” Hannibal narrated, “he’s often contrasted with the sun God Apollo, who stands for light and in turn enlightenment.” He paced idly around the shelves, never more present than a ghost. “Apollo is the patron of civilized, orderly societies while Dionysus represents barbarism and carnal living. The superego and the ID, if you will.

“Before the Greeks were the orderly society we know them to have been, they worshiped Dionysus in a festival called the Greater Dionysia. Some ceremonies, though not necessarily sanctioned by the state, included orgiastic sex as well as animal sacrifices. Eventually they discontinued this tradition and instead used theater to enact the carnal, substituting words for their bodies. This is, incidentally, where the Greek tragedy originated from.”

Will could feel how close he was, just a few feet back, so he stood absolutely still as if not moving would make him invisible. That should have been close enough for Hannibal to know whether or not Will had kept his shampoo the same or decided to diverge from habit, but he still couldn’t tell under the especially strong aroma of sandalwood cologne. The moment Will had stepped into his house it was all he could smell or taste. The wine and dinner were nothing.

“Nietzsche,” Hannibal continued, “later defined tragedy as the result of an Apollonian-Dionysian conflict—when the individual’s carnal, bestial desires are suppressed under conventions of the civilized world.”

The hairs on the back of Will’s neck stood straight on end, tugging the muscles beside his brainstem where his fight or flight instinct sat and urged him to get out. But in his paralysis and fear there was a sort of peace that suddenly settled through him. Will could finally recapture that same feeling he'd had before while looking Hannibal in the eye and tasting the last bit of wine on his lips. There was nothing else like it.

Will resumed flipping through the book, skimming the thick paragraphs and the words rolled right off his tongue: “Don’t you have somewhere else to be, Dr. Lecter?”

The words echoed quietly in the open space somehow even more than Hannibal’s. But then Will soon heard the sound of footsteps on the carpet when Dr. Lecter turned away and headed for the door. “Feel free to borrow any books you like.” The door shut with a soft click behind him.

**Serenade (Schubert)**

Early that morning, a college student named Quinn Byrne was abducted right from his car on the side of the hideaway. He was found sitting against a tree trunk less than a quarter mile into the woods, dead since around 4 or 5 that morning. He was naked, but the killer had draped Quinn’s coat over his torso like a blanket to cover him from the shoulders down. At least 70 bullet holes punctured his body, but that wasn’t nearly the worst of it. When Vincent took off his coat he found Quinn’s stomach slit open with a hunting knife from navel to diaphragm like a gutted deer. The coat was the only thing holding it closed. Vincent removed it and Quinn’s intestines came spilling out, landing at his feet.

“I haven’t been this rattled since the Copycat,” Vincent whispered. His hands were clasped in front of his face. Hannibal sat next to him on the couch in the living room. “Upon further investigation we found that they were so loose because the killer had just stuffed them in there. Hastily.

“The whole scene gave off an air of psychotic impulse. Rushed actions, blind rage, like somebody completely detached from reality. The whole act was purely opportunistic. He was walking around looking lost, probably coming off like he was having an episode of some sort, and Quinn saw him and pulled over to see if he could help. The killer snapped and dragged him into the woods. We’re thinking the killer got the gun from Quinn, from the back of his truck. His family said his hunting rifle was missing.”

“What do you make of the coat?”

“He started to regret his actions once he came down from his psychosis. He wanted to put Quinn back together, like sewing up a doll.”

“That would explain why he left little to no evidence behind.”

Vincent nodded. “Usually these killers who murder in the height of a psychotic episode are careless about the clean-up process, but maybe he got lucky in the circumstances or made a last-ditch effort to cover his tracks. Either way we have very little to go on. Clearly he’s a hunter, judging by the blade cut, but who isn’t around here? Like I said, the gun and coat were Quinn’s, snow covered any footprints, there were no fingerprints; no bodily fluids left behind. We don’t have anything. I’m looking into recently released patients from psychiatric wards and any other reports of a violent mental break recently.”

The victim’s clothes lay under a foot of snow not far from the scene. The killer had pulled Quinn’s clothes off in a struggle, ripping the sweater in several places and choking him for at least a few minutes to subdue him, judging by the bruises on Quinn’s neck. Then he stood up and started shooting him. Quinn tried to escape but backed himself into a tree, and somewhere in the midst of that the killer decided to carve him up. Vincent’s colleagues were calling the killer the Snowman.

Vincent huffed out a quick, bittersweet laugh. Just as the Snowman had torn Quinn’s sweater apart trying to strip him of it, the composure Hannibal had witnessed during that dinner was coming undone right before his eyes as Vincent struggled to tuck his loose threads in. “When—when you strip away the exterior, the body looks like a sponge,” he said. “It’s just horrific. The worst part is I think Quinn was alive for most of that. Clearly the intent wasn’t to kill.”

“What was the intent?” Hannibal asked.

“He wanted to see how badly he could hurt him. He was pushing himself to see how far he could go. And in some form or fashion, it was satisfying. The release of anger and tension, visually presented before his eyes, was cathartic. He felt good while he did it. Good, terrified, and powerful at the same time.”

There was a long pause, next. Too long.

"Vincent?"

“I'm almost completely sure this was some sort of psychotic break,” Vincent muttered. “Everything about the scene looked frenzied and insane and unhinged. This is a person who is mentally unstable, had access to hunting equipment, and lives in this area.”

“One in five families in a fifty mile radius likely has access to hunting equipment, and some of them are bound to be unstable.”

Vincent breathed out what might have started out as a laugh but ended as a heave. He rubbed his eyes with a trembling hand. “You’re right.”

“There’s very little evidence here to suggest this has anything to do with you.”

“What about my dream?” Vincent asked.

“A dark woods is a common setting for nightmares, especially if you happen to live in one.”

“I understand that, it’s just that I felt—like—I’d done something horrible. In my dream there was some taste in the air that told me I had just committed a crime. But how would I ever know what that feeling is like?”

“You didn’t mention this detail last night; likely this is confirmation bias. I think watching this killer demonstrate a loss of his control is amplifying your fear of the same.”

Vincent seemed far away then. Hannibal could tell by the way his speech broke into unequal pieces that he was letting his logical mind go on autopilot while his conscience drifted further and further away from him. Into the woods he disappeared, his world slipping between his fingers like snow crumbling—

"Vincent." A hand weighed on his arm like an anchor.

He looked up.

"Come back," Hannibal whispered. He didn’t have to talk very loudly. A lot of space between them had elapsed, and once he had Vincent’s eyes in a lock he knew Vincent wouldn’t dare look away. 

"Where are you?"

"It’s… it’s past 10. Thursday, January 2nd. We’re at your house. Will is in the library."

"Right. Make yourself comfortable; stay a while."

Vincent’s head fell and shoulders shook in a strangled laugh. He ran his fingers back through his hair. Despite the prompt to give him space, Hannibal didn’t move. He could see a few beads of sweat glistening on Vincent’s forehead and the loose hairs falling over his forehead that would have been invisible at any other distance.

"I really do wonder if you should still be acting as my psychiatrist," Vincent muttered. "Sometimes I feel like I’m grappling in the darkness and you’re the only handhold."

"Perhaps you just have to open your eyes."

Vincent shifted them up. He meant to meet Hannibal’s gaze, which he could feel pressing on his eyelids like a massage, but the space had dwindled smaller and smaller and Vincent could feel his former doctor’s breath hitting his chin. "What will be there if I do?" he asked.

"That, you’ll have to see for yourself.”

Hannibal had every chance to move, to stop this, but he didn’t. Vincent rested his eyes shut again. With the world gone from his view, he felt as if his body was floating. It drifted forward, and with the gentlest contact, touched its lips to Hannibal’s.

Hannibal didn’t move. Vincent turned his head at an angle and kissed him deeper, and Hannibal didn’t do anything but relax and allow Vincent to move their lips together.

It was over in an instant when Vincent tore away and bolted to his feet. "Fuck," he muttered. "Fuck, I’m sorry.”

Hannibal stood up as well, slower. Vincent had expected him to have some sort of emotion whether it be elation, confusion, or apology, but there was none and that made it all the more frightening. Hannibal just spoke his name gently. "Vincent."

"Don’t, don’t, I know.” Vincent took up his jacket lying across the couch arm. “I’m sorry. It’s getting late." When Hannibal came closer, Vincent tried to sidestep him but Hannibal caught his arm in a solid grip and held him in place until he looked back up. Once again Hannibal’s eyes were piercing his.

Hannibal took one step forward and Vincent didn’t retreat again. As long as he was looking at Vincent like that he had him paralyzed in his grip, frozen right wherever he wanted him. In that moment Vincent felt stripped of every defense he ever had. Without the slimmest chance of escape he was exposed for every desire and pervasive thought he’d ever had about his doctor. Hannibal knew them all. And he pressed their mouths together fully. He cupped the back of Vincent’s head and as he eased them deeper together, Vincent melted into the touch.

His heart was on the edge of a pin while Hannibal moved their lips in the steady rhythm he had designed. Vincent had one hand reaching for his waist, wrapping around to increase their contact, and one on his shoulder. Bit by bit it made its way under his jacket to feel the solid muscle of his chest. Hannibal responded with the slightest catch in breath and traced down the slope of Vincent’s back to his hips. Vincent ached with frustration when the hand stopped there and he pressed his body harder against Hannibal’s, begging for more, but Hannibal held him steady to obey his tempo. Vincent wished he would just throw him back on the couch and choke him. He knew Hannibal was stronger than he came off and he got just a taste of what he could do when the hand on his neck tightened, sending shivers through Vincent’s body. But a taste was all he got.

Hannibal pulled away gently and Vincent got the cue, relaxing as well, but it was a struggle. His body was practically vibrating and he couldn’t imagine how Hannibal could be so composed when, judging by his measured but rough breathing, the fire wasn’t one-sided. The tension between them was palpable.

“I, I should go,” Vincent muttered. His voice was shaky at best.

“Alright,” Hannibal whispered. His eyes were on Vincent’s lips.

They didn’t say a word on their walk to the library. Vincent was busy smoothing down his hair and making himself look presentable.

They walked inside and Will was sitting criss-cross in an armchair in the center of the room, a book open on his lap, shoulders hunched as if he were recoiling from an attack. When he saw them approaching, he shut the book and quickly stood up.

“Would you like to borrow that?” Hannibal asked him, nodding down.

Will shook his head. “No, thanks,” he said. He was avoiding Hannibal’s eyes as he set the book down on the center table, but there was something different about it this time. More guarded; more on-edge. He had cut himself out completely from Hannibal’s personal space and he remained that way until he and his father left. Hannibal had to dolefully wonder if distrust was genetic in the Graham family at this point.


	5. Five

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> y'all ready for the entire plot to change?

**Danse Bohème (from Carmen, Bizet)**

The next night, Hannibal was roused from his sleep by the rattle of his cellphone on the bed stand. The glowing red numbers on his alarm clock reading 2:47 seared his burning eyes. The yellow-orange light of a street lamp was the only other sign of life at that hour; it passed in through his window, dipping in the creases in his sheets.

He exhaled and flipped onto his side to reach over and unplug his phone, somewhat dreading seeing a ‘Vincent Graham’ calling. Instead, when he picked up his phone the screen displayed a number he didn’t have in his contacts. The area code was close by, but a quick scan through his memory told him he’d never seen the number before. Curiosity started to drag his mind out from its exhaustion.

He answered the call and held the phone up to his ear. "Hello?" he asked.

No reply. Whoever it was was outside. He could hear the wind blowing on the other end and all the other nameless sounds creating the kind of ambiance only found in the early morning.

"Hello?"

"Is this Dr. Lecter?" came the quiet reply.

"Yes, and who is this?"

"Vincent’s son. Will."

The pause Hannibal left next was spent bathing in the moment of suspense and unexpected delight bringing him to life. "Will,” he whispered. He sat up in bed. “After all this time, you’ve finally decided to use my number."

Presumably the silence that came next was from Will stumped on what to say. "Sorry for calling so early.”

"That’s alright." Hannibal had no idea where Will was, but his weak voice was right next to his ear as close as if he had his lips brushed against Hannibal’s face. “What can I do for you, my boy?"

There was another pause. "I found them. The drawings. In your office.”

It cut him through the middle without a sound and Hannibal could do nothing but sit there, breathless.

Will sucked in a breath. "I was in the library, but after a little while I decided to wander around. Just, like, I don’t know. Look around at the art. I was feeling restless. I tried to listen in on what you and my dad were talking about, but you were whispering, so I just wandered around the halls and I found your office. Started looking through drawers, snooping, for no reason really. I saw the sketches...

“I had seen the picture of the naked woman in your hallway but that wasn’t so shocking for some reason. I felt like an observer looking at it. I looked up Leda and the Swan after I got home and it was a little unnerving to know you had something like that hanging in your home, but it felt more like a study of form than anything else. The emphasis was all on the artistic value and not sexuality. But the more I thought about it, the more I figured out that that was what made your sketches of murder so unsettling. It wasn’t the content, it was the passion you invested in them. It’s really second-best to holding the knife, isn’t it? In your own way you’re still playing God.

“Last night I was thinking—either you’re sick and fascinated with murder or you’re an actual serial killer. Maybe you’re just thinking about killing someone, but somehow I doubt it. You're far too self-assured to be suffering from that kind of paranoia. My guess is that you’ve killed before and you’re about to do it again. But you’re holding back; why? You’re holding the reins on yourself but the temptation to let go is consuming you. Intellectually, physically, everything. It’s an obsession. The sheer _number_ of sketches there were was terrifying.”

He paused. “Is that how you keep yourself satiated? Drawing is only so much for so long; the need is threatening to drive you to something short-sighted and impulsive so eventually you’ve got to take care of it and kill with your own hands. Feel the power invading you. Feed on the addiction. It’s intoxicating. How do you keep a hold on yourself?

“Maybe you can’t, at least sometimes. How many crime scenes have you ruined just because you were so hard you couldn’t stop yourself from jerking off? You’re probably hard right now just thinking about it, and the need is growing every second blood is off your hands. It’s a ticking time bomb and you’re straining against your pants trying to keep ahold of it. Am I right about this... Doctor?”

Hannibal couldn’t move a muscle. He’d never been so speechless.

“I believe I asked you a question.”

He struggled to remember how to use his tongue again but finally managed to breathe out, "Yes.”

“That’s better.” Will sighed out some of his tension. “You know I could just tell my dad and your life would be over,” he whispered. “It wouldn’t take but one second and nothing you do right now could stop me.”

Hannibal didn’t dare speak unless asked. He didn’t have the floor. The floor had Will’s name carved inches deep. Will had his tongue in his fist. Hannibal waited anxiously, counting the moments until Will would rip it out. Nor did he dare to move his hand to the bulge throbbing under his sheets.

Will was coming down from his high, and when he spoke again he had lost the confidence that made him so lethal just seconds ago. Instead it was replaced with the all-too-familiar anxiety Hannibal saw in his eyes the night before. “I need your help.”

**La Follia (Vivaldi)**

Will sent a pin with his location. He was buried in an area of the woods only penetrated by a nameless, two-lane road winding into the darkness miles from any civilization. There was nobody else out at that time of night, so after rushing out of his house Hannibal reached the spot in a mere 20 minutes. He knew he had arrived when he saw a silver Honda parked on the shoulder of the road and recognized Will’s small form sitting against a tree nearby. He could tell that the confidence he formerly heard in the boy’s voice had evaporated completely when the headlights swiped over his pale face.

Hannibal came to a stop and stepped out of the car. Will stood up at the same time with his arms pulled tightly around his middle, expectedly avoiding eye contact. It was in the 30s and he was shivering wearing only a sweater and no gloves or hat.

After observing the boy’s state, Hannibal pushed a button on his fob and walked to the back of his car to open the trunk. Will tensed. His hand went to the knife lying secretly sheathed in his sleeve. He figured he might be able to get to the Honda in time before Hannibal reached him if he started running immediately, but he didn’t have the keys. Maybe it was locked. And there was no guarantee there was any weapon in there that’d protect him if he was up against a gun, though Hannibal didn’t seem like the gun type.

Meanwhile Hannibal was watching the gears turn in Will’s head and then his defensive gaze when Will looked back. Hannibal’s hand emerged from the trunk with a large coat and Will exhaled in exasperation or relief.

“Good morning,” Hannibal said as he shut the trunk and walked closer to Will, but he stopped a few yards away. He had to approach the boy carefully, like gaining the trust of a wild animal. And Will did look feral. His hair was tousled and he carried the air of someone who would either strike or sprint if Hannibal got too close.

Instead Hannibal held the coat out as an offering. Will was cautious in closing the distance between them, but the coat looked thick and warm so he took it up and wrapped it around his shoulders. It was more than twice his size and reached down to his thighs, but insulated his heat perfectly.

Hannibal stayed right where he was. "Are you hurt?” he asked.

“No,” Will answered. The words were nearly lost in the shakes of his breath when a cloud of frost blew from his mouth and dissipated. 

"Will you lead me?"

Will nodded and turned away.

They ventured into the treeline. A few yards in there was a steep drop down to a ravine they descended carefully. Snow piled up against the trees where it was slipping down the slope as well and concealing any hidden dips and rocks that would be clear during the springtime. The clusters of bare branches like a briar patch hid the trench’s true depth, but it was at least far enough for a car crash on that road to be fatal.

They didn’t have to walk down far, but due to the dangerous circumstances and the lack of light they went slowly, keeping their hold on the trees with every step.

"Would you like to tell me what happened?" Hannibal asked.

In a moment of pause, Will prepared himself for the speech he’d been rehearsing for the past twenty minutes. "I really didn’t plan on going to that party," he began. "When I left your house I decided I was, but then earlier today I was thinking hard about it and I changed my mind. And that was it; I thought that was my final decision. Then later I heard my dad getting up at about midnight. I usually have to go to bed at nine so he thought I was asleep by then, and I heard him get in his car and leave without a note or a text or anything.

“I know he went to work because this’s happened before. He’s gonna come back today before I wake up and assume I don’t know anything. But it’s different this time. He told me one of his New Year’s Resolutions was to focus less on work and more on ‘family,’" he quoted in the air. “And then on literally the third day of the year he leaves in the middle of the night. Well-" Will suddenly slipped on the ground and slid a few feet without a handhold. Hannibal reached out to him but Will caught himself on the next tree in front of him.

Will steadied himself, then went on with his story. His increasing unease gave his words a certain bite. "I heard him go," he continued. "So I said screw it and I texted the guy at school who had invited me. He said he could still drive me, so he picked me up and we left. That was at about midnight.”

"And how did you like it?"

"It was horrible." Will huffed a laugh, feeling out the sturdiness of a big rock stuck in the ground with his shoe, then he stepped on top to get a vantage point. "Just like we said. Loud music. Drinking. Crowds. Y’know—all of my favorite things." With the way his heart was in his throat as he stepped down, it seemed like he must’ve found what he was looking for. They worked their way a little farther to the left to the point Will spotted. "I got anxious as soon as we pulled up to the house. I found a quiet place for about an hour... I may have had a sip or two of Luke’s beer, but it was even worse than the wine so I sort of, uh, backed out. Eventually I worked up enough courage to tell Luke I wanted to go.

"When he was driving me back he said he knew a shortcut. That was this road. Then he…" They cleared a cluster of trees which had blocked Hannibal’s view and now he could see clearly what they were walking towards. Will must’ve felt the shift in energy since he turned to look up at Hannibal’s face, stone cold but accented with silent astonishment.

"He, he pulled over at one point and told me to get out of the car," Will said. “When I said no he took out a knife and walked me down here. He told me to get on my knees and what I was going to do… You know. So I got down, and while he was undoing his belt I punched him in the crotch. He fell down and I tried to—to run away, but it’s hard to get uphill here and I was sliding, so he grabbed onto my sweater and I tried to fight him off. I tried to get his knife away from him. The rest I don’t remember. It all happened really fast. Somehow, I…"

They stopped on a ledge interrupting the decline of the hill where a blond boy’s body lay soaked in a thick pool of blood. Dozens of stab wounds dotted his body where his clothes clung to his stomach.

"I, I didn’t know what to do,” Will whispered, “so I just called you."

They stood there letting reality sink in, quiet as if they were the only two people on earth now and Will had killed the only other one. Luke lay before them on his back, sprawled out on the ground like he was making a snow angel, but he was practically floating in his own blood.

Finally Hannibal knelt down beside the body and removed his gloves. He carefully peeled away the coat sticking to Luke’s sides, then his shirt and sweater over his stomach so he could see the stab wounds better. They were deep. Three inches or more, but they matched Will’s story since the stomach was one of the only parts of the body Will would’ve enough strength to stab through. Hannibal also noticed that the victim’s pants zipper was all the way down and parted.

It was an impulsive act, that was clear. Hannibal couldn’t help but be swept away in the emotion still fermenting off the corpse as if he’d seen Will drive the knife over and over into the boy’s body with his own eyes. It emanated off every drop of blood spilled. He could smell it. He longed to go back to that moment when Will snapped, and his fear evolved into hunger. When did it happen, Hannibal asked himself—after the third stab or a half-second before the first? When exactly did he lose himself?

Will didn’t know what to say so he just stood there watching the scene unfold, arms pulled around his body. As he stepped back he leaned against a tree trunk and slid down to the snowbank below. It was hard to separate himself from the scene now that he was face-to-face with what he’d done. The panic was setting in again.

Hannibal’s attention shifted to a pile of clothes a few feet away, Will’s sweater and gloves. "You were smart to take them off," he said. “And the knife in your sleeve is his?”

Will’s heart dipped. “Yeah.” He wasn’t planning on giving it up any time soon, although he knew Hannibal could overpower him any moment he wanted.

"If you let me take the clothes home, I’ll burn them." 

"His phone is—in his car.”

“I’ll make note of that.”

Will fidgeted with the buttons on Dr. Lecter’s coat, but he wanted to bury his head in its fabric and suffocate in its scent. It was unfortunate that Hannibal had such a soothing voice, like ice to press against a bruise. It almost made him trust him. “What, what do I do?" he asked.

"You don’t have to do anything. I’ll take care of it.” Hannibal traced his finger over a stab wound. “That is, unless you’d like to participate."

"Participate?"

"In the disposal."

Will’s stomach jerked. "No, thanks."

"You weren't so squeamish when you killed him.” Will didn’t respond. Hannibal dipped the tip of his finger into the hole, careful not to tear it open. The scene was already perfect as it was, walking the line between unabridged insanity and intuitive craftsmanship.

It was so perfect it looked like something Hannibal would have fantasized about. The notion that this could all be a dream was an interesting one. It certainly felt like one. It had all the tell-tale elements of many of his dreams: isolation; a barren piece of the woodlands; a sliver of intense passion dangling forever out of his reach, taunting him. Hannibal figured that even if it was a dream, that was no reason to stop what he was doing now. If so, he hoped his unconscious would allow him to remain here a little longer.

Will glanced impatiently back to the incline they’d just gone done where the snow was still thrashed around from the struggle. He was waiting for something to happen, but Hannibal was just there, thinking God knew what. Probably downloading these images into his memory for recreational use, he thought bitterly. He wanted to yank him back by his scarf and yell at him to just wipe this entire night away but he would never dare go near him. “What’re we going to do with the car?” he asked.

“I’m going to leave it there,” Hannibal explained calmly, “so it will look as if he left of his own accord after I wipe the passenger’s seat for any traces of you having been there.”

“I had my gloves on when I was in the car, if that helps.”

“It does, thank you.”

“And what about the blood?”

“I’m going to mix up the snow well enough so it doesn’t look suspicious from a distance. Aside from that, there’s not much else to be done, and likely it will be covered up naturally by tomorrow afternoon if the weather continues like it has been. There’s no need to rush.”

Will exploded. “N—No need to rush?!” he repeated, glaring daggers at Hannibal’s back. “I’m a murderer! Tomorrow people will be looking for him, and—I—What if people at the party remember I was there?”

Hannibal took a seat on the snow next to Luke and faced Will from across the small clearing. “If worst comes to worst,” he said, “tell them you were there and you became anxious, so you called me to avoid getting into trouble and I picked you up. Your father knows you have my number already and he will trust my word. He’ll be angry with you, but it’s better than the alternative. If those people remember you left with Luke, say that you got out yourself because you felt unsafe with him while he was intoxicated. Then you called me.”

Will nodded at the ground while his fist clenched the sleeve of Hannibal’s coat. “Okay,” he accepted. “And what’re you going to do with the body again?”

“Dispose of it. Securely.”

“I want to know how you do it so you don't end up blackmailing me later.”

“I’m far more at risk than you.”

“But I have no hard evidence. And you could just kill me.”

Hannibal found the response surprising. “Of course I could,” he said. “I could have done so minutes ago and it would have been in my best interest.”

A cold gust blew, reminding Will of the emptiness stretching miles around him. The fact that if he screamed, nobody would hear him. Chills found their way inside the oversized coat and pricked up his spine.

“I’m an idiot,” Will muttered. “Until just now you had no idea I suspected you were a murderer. Your guard was down and I had every opportunity to start forming a plan—tell my dad, tell the FBI, at least something. Not nothing. Instead you get a call that _warns_ you I’m onto you and I invite you to a secluded location at three a.m."

“Why _did_ you call me?”

“Who else am I going to call? My dad?” He left it at that. “Not only that, but I’ve already committed a crime and have given you all the evidence you could ever need to get creative with your counteroffensive. You have the opportunity, motive, and method. Why the hell wouldn’t you kill me? Or worse.” His eyes glanced up the slope they’d just descended, knowing he couldn’t get away if he tried. He could call for help but Hannibal would stop him in time. “If you’re the kind of, of killer who likes to play with his food first. Don’t deny it. I see the way you look at me.”

“Hurting you is the last thing I want to do.” Hannibal paused. “At least, in the ways you don’t want to be hurt.”

Will chuckled stiffly but there was little emotion in it. Rather he laughed because he didn’t know how he could handle any more fear.

“As for murder, I haven’t had blood on my hands for years and I wasn’t planning on it again.”

“Huh,” Will replied. “Well. Sorry to drag you out of retirement.”

“No feelings hurt.”

“Thank God for that.”

“I’m not sure if this is your suspicion, but in case it occurred to you, I’m not the man your father is looking for, either.”

“I know that.” Will shook his head. “The Snowman is psychotic. You’re psychopathic. I can’t imagine you being so purposefully messy.”

“You have intimate details of that case.”

Will didn’t reply. His eyes drifted to his own victim, bathing in the dark red snow. He had been so bent on putting it as far out of his mind as he could that he hadn’t really taken the time to analyze his own crime. He wondered if his dad would classify this as psychotic or psychopathic, or something in the middle. Elusive or amateurish; or clearly the work of somebody socially inept.

He sat in silence, hands folded under his armpits, frozen to the ground. “I could have just called the police,” he whispered. “He didn’t have to die. He’s just a kid. And he was probably on drugs of some kind, and drunk. And his family is… God.” He buried his head in his knees.

“You did nothing wrong.” The words were so kind they made Will furious.

“How can you say that?” His words cut and fractured in his mouth. “I just, I ruined a family’s life. God, he might’ve been an attempted rapist but he’s just a kid, a kid who probably has a shittier home life than I do, who could’ve gotten _help_. I mean, he assaulted me. But I slaughtered him.” Will couldn’t even care about the crunch of approaching footsteps over his throbbing heart. He knew that if Hannibal wanted to hurt him he wouldn’t resist. He deserved it. “He was no worse than me,” he whispered to himself.

Will felt rather than saw the dark figure descending beside him barely a foot away, close enough he was sharing body heat with a shadow. Though numb he felt the sensation of fingers caressing his temple and tracing the curve of his ear while they tucked hair out from his eyes. That same hand cupped Will’s, so big compared to his own. With his thumb Dr. Lecter traced the soft skin between his thumb and forefinger and Will invested every ounce of his attention in the movement. It anchored him to reality.

“If you hadn’t killed him, he would have left you here to die,” Hannibal murmured. His voice wormed its way into Will’s mind with ease and nestled him in velvet. “It was self-defense.”

“Then why aren’t we calling the police?” Will asked.

“Why didn’t you call the police?”

Will exhaled and the heat bounced back inches in front of him. “It didn’t… feel like self-defense.”

“I know.” Hannibal was just inches away from resting their foreheads together, so Will closed his eyes, otherwise it would have all been all shadows. The words came just as closely as if Will had thought them himself. “Come with me,” he whispered.

Whether it was out of a hypnotic willingness or just an attempt to satisfy Hannibal so he could go home, Will pushed off the tree and walked with him to kneel in front of the body. Will sat down looking, for the first time Hannibal had seen, 13 years old or even younger. The echoes of what were once sobs wracking his body were still making his movements unsteady. He moved so fragile he was a stranger to himself; Hannibal wanted nothing more than to cocoon him with his body and swallow him.

He curled his fingers delicately against Will’s delicate wrist then guided his hand to the body lying in front of them. Will’s fingers met Luke’s cold skin.

"Tell me how it felt.”

The wind blew tenderly in response. Hannibal gazed at the flecks of snow in his eyelashes and saw Will’s eyes glued to his victim. _His_ victim.

"Amazing," Will whispered. "More than amazing. Beyond any word. I felt like a force of nature.”

Hannibal let go of his hand and Will took control of it himself. It explored, passing over the stab wounds and smearing a blood trail down the stomach until it came into contact with the body’s underpants. Will withdrew his hand and gazed at the blood painted on his fingers. Then he took them between his lips and sucked. His eyes closed and he disappeared into the taste. Hannibal watched Will’s throat rise and fall as he swallowed, then he opened his mouth and released his fingers with an exhale. When he opened his eyes, his pupils were blown wide with ecstasy.

Will turned his attention back to the body and rubbed Luke’s shirt between his thumb and forefinger. His finger found a stab hole and dipped inside, ripping the flesh open further as he pressed it deeper and deeper. At least now Hannibal’s attention was drawn back to the body too, and for the moment Will chose not to acknowledge the entity sitting next to him, eating a hole in his mind.

He slid his finger out and returned with two. Their girth was larger than the wound and it ripped open the skin further, pushing more blood out. Then he lifted his hand back up and stared. Red dripped down his digits, rolling onto his knuckle and hesitating before it fell down the slope of his hand. He was mesmerized with how it moved; its behavior. Its adaptive yet bold personality. It slipped in the intricacies of his skin, filling the mold of his fingerprint and at the same time painting over it.

A shadow moved from his peripheral vision when Hannibal bowed his head before him and took Will’s fingers in his mouth. Wet lips pressed against his skin. And Hannibal’s tongue. So under control as if it was its own entity. It licked up and down and curled around each digit in a thirst for every drop of blood. Will couldn't breathe.

When Hannibal lifted his head up, his lips squeezed around the shaft until they popped off. His lips parted open in a hollow imitation of an expression, but this was nothing compared to the moment he looked up and Will’s eyes met his. They pierced straight through each other.

Hannibal’s phone rang in his pocket.

Will exhaled a breath of frost that graced Hannibal’s chin while Hannibal reached for the phone. The screen read ‘Vincent Graham’.

“Do you think he knows I'm gone?” Will whispered.

“If he does,” Hannibal replied; he looked up but Will wouldn’t meet his eyes again; “should I tell him you called to tell me and I picked you up so you wouldn’t be alone?”

“Yeah, that sounds good.”

Hannibal answered the call and held the phone to his ear. “Good morning,” he greeted coldly.

"Hannibal!" Vincent’s volatile voice flew like a whistling kettle. "You have no idea what I just figured out."

"What is that?"

"I was thinking about the whole situation with Quinn. I know it’s early, I’m sorry—I just had to tell someone. I was thinking about the choking and the shooting and when the killer was tearing off his clothes, but when I first looked at the crime scene I was confused about why would the killer try to get close enough to choke him when he could just shoot him? I know I said before that he was trying to see how badly he could hurt him—”

Hannibal pushed himself to his feet and gestured to Will that everything was alright. Will relaxed and Hannibal walked across the clearing, a few yards from the body. "Vincent, take a breath,” he calmed.

“But choking isn’t usually associated with inflicting pain,” Vincent continued. “It’s about intimacy or overpowering someone. And I realized, the shooting, the choking, and the mutilation all suggest conflicting aims. Shooting wasn’t intimate enough for him but the mutilation was. Choking was both.”

Hannibal sat with his back against a tree trunk. “I see.”

“This killer was driven by two things: a need for control and a need for intimacy. He was desperate to fulfill them both, and in a frenzy without any defined goal or plan, his MO was messy and rushed. I drove to work to investigate to look at the evidence and make sure everything matched up, and it did.”

Vincent paused, and this pause lasted for longer than his usual ones but Hannibal knew him well enough that he could sense when it was time to talk and when it was better to wait.

"Are you outside?" Vincent asked.

"I am." Hannibal’s eyes drifted naturally around the scene. The treeline was so perfectly black it looked like it had been painted over the grey sky. The moon was a single white eye in the grey sea. "I  
find a short walk soothes the mind and makes falling asleep easier."

"Can’t sleep either, huh?" Vincent gave a quick huff, and then sighed out. "Damn," he said, "I can’t remember what I was saying."

Whenever Hannibal let his eyes drift, it was only natural they made their way to Will. The knife was out of his sleeve, beside him in the snow. It was clean so he must have wiped it. Will was kneeling before the body like before, peeling back Luke’s coat gingerly as if he was a foreigner again to his own work. Hannibal could only imagine what must be going through his head.

"Method," Vincent’s voice revved its engine and took off again, this time at a steadier pace. "It’s possible that the killer wanted to choke him into unconsciousness, but Quinn was too strong and wouldn’t let him get a proper hold. He had to shoot him before he was weak enough to let him take full control. We’re not looking at someone very physically strong, then.”

"So what is the sequence?"

Will’s eyes glided over the corpse bathing in the snow. His fist tightened the slightest bit by his side; he was imagining the knife in his hand again. He breathed out of his paling lips a cloud of frost that dissipated. His mouth was boiling hot. Hannibal could feel it from yards away.

"The Snowman drags Quinn into the forest, but he’s still fighting, so he starts choking him. The power is starting to get into him, like a drug, driving him further insane. And he starts ripping off his clothes. When Quinn fights back he shoots him again, and then tears off the rest of his clothes. Quinn starts crawling away, and the killer shoots him again, again, again, until he loses count. His need for rage has been satisfied. Quinn is dead, but now the killer has lost the intimacy he desires, and he feels cold and alone. So he takes out his knife and cuts his stomach open.”

“He wants to know him from the inside out.”

Will turned his head and met Hannibal’s eyes. Met them. It was an out-of-body experience. The air in Hannibal’s lungs was useless when looking at Will because there was nothing that could be said, nothing that could be described, eloquently or filthily, that would fill the void of what he felt.

Quietly, he spoke: "You said he wanted to hurt Quinn. Does that still stand?” Their gaze hadn’t wavered yet. Will only broke it when he began to crawl over to where Hannibal was sitting. His knees crunched through the snow.

"That was probably a part of it, too. The ripping off of his clothes does seem a bit like a, like a punishment.”

“Perhaps it was his way of rekindling love to sadism.”

Will arrived right next to him with those green eyes like daggers in his. When he got close enough, Hannibal’s lips brushed his thick hair. His scent was suffocating, but not peaches anymore. Coconut. That was a much harder fruit to crack.

“You’re right,” Vincent whispered. “There was definitely a kind of desire to hurt that comes out of the shooting and taking off his clothes, as much as there was love in the asphyxiation and the mutilation. And he united these two.” Will leaned on Hannibal’s thigh for balance. "He united them in control.”

Will’s small hand grasped one of Hannibal’s and he took his blood-soaked finger in his mouth.

Hannibal suppressed a noise as fast as he could when Will’s wet and hot mouth enveloped him, but evidently he wasn’t subtle enough. "Are you okay?" Vincent asked.

"Yes,” Hannibal replied. “Thank you. This theory could lead your investigation in a completely new direction. Have you told Jack yet?"

"Not yet," said Vincent, disappointed. "It’s nothing I can’t just tell him first thing tomorrow. He’d probably be a lot less apt to listen to me if I woke him up.”

Will went from one finger to the next, tongue curling around each digit and stroking up the shaft, then licking the blood off his lips after every one like it was the most delicious thing he’d ever tasted. There was a sort of unyielding confidence in the way he gripped the hand. Hannibal was struggling to keep his composure but he refused to avert his eyes from Will’s hot mouth parted around his finger, bobbing up and down and coating it with his saliva.

"You’re probably correct. Some people like to sleep in the early morning." Will rose up on his knees and pulled Hannibal’s scarf away from his neck, then pressed his open lips to his skin. Hannibal bared his neck for more and his eyes closed.

Vincent gave a short laugh. "Right.”

Will had to put more weight on Hannibal’s thigh. The kisses that were at first light and sweet were getting more aggressive. Hannibal felt teeth scrape against his skin more than once, sending pleasure tumbling in the pit of his stomach.

"When… Where are you planning on going from here?" he struggled to ask. Will latched onto Hannibal’s neck with his teeth like an animal. Hannibal’s eyes rolled into the back of his head. His hand flew to his mouth and he bit down on the flesh of his palm as the only way to keep silent.

"I think this person is in a broken relationship. So I want to look at recovering addicts, those released from psychiatric hospitals, anyone on probation, especially those with a history of domestic abuse. Maybe his spouse left him, or maybe it’s just anger and he’s putting off the moment when he might harm them. He’s modeling his victim after them. Someone with—” Vincent sighed. “Sorry, I’m, trembling right now.”

Will kissed further down Hannibal’s neck, dismantling the scarf to expose his neck completely like he was dismantling Hannibal himself, pulling thread from thread. Hannibal could’ve sworn Will felt him inhale deeply when his nose was against his skin. Will’s hand shifted higher on the thigh for greater support and until it brushed against something stiff in Hannibal’s lap. The movements stopped.

The pressure on Hannibal’s thigh released and Will dropped to the ground with the same brutal impact as Hannibal’s heart slamming into his stomach.

"With so much information, it can be difficult to keep a linear course of thought," Hannibal said. He inhaled and calmed himself, but it was getting impossibly difficult as Will worked at his belt and zipper. "Your mind is already agitated and difficult to keep under your control right now."

“What else is new,” Vincent muttered.

“Maybe it would be best to sleep at the office rather than going home. Driving home in such a state would be dangerous—” A new sensation effortlessly sliced through his train of thought and threatened to rip a moan straight from his throat. Hannibal managed a sharp intake of breath and took the receiver away from his face.

Vincent replied but the words fell out of Hannibal’s head just as quickly. His mind was boiling as hot as Will’s mouth around his hard cock. He forced himself to bring back the phone to his ear and luck threw him a lifeline when Vincent started a new train of thought he could reply to.

"And I’m worried that I left Will home alone. I locked the front door and everything but I don’t know. He’s still just a kid. If he wakes up and I’m gone… God. He’d be so scared.”

Will didn’t stop with just taking the tip between his lips. He moved his head up and down in small motions, learning gradually how to stretch his mouth wide enough and massage his tongue against the head. Hannibal’s eyes were closed and his mouth half open, struggling to filter the moans from his breaths. He could barely think. "I wouldn’t advise taking the risk,” he said. “Have you done this before?"

“This?”

“Left home while he was asleep?”

“Oh. No."

"Then… be careful of making a habit of it.”

Will was starting to get the hang of coordinating his hand and his mouth at the same time. It didn't matter how awkward it was; the relief was divine. Waves of pleasure shook Hannibal to the bone, furnacing a ball of fire raging in the pit of his stomach. It smoked out sounds and even whines of pleasure Hannibal could barely choke down. “Perhaps you can go in tomorrow afternoon and take Will out to an early lunch,” he managed. “It will benefit you both to bond with him."

"Yeah. That’s a good idea, I will,” Vincent said. “Sorry, you sound tired. I must be keeping you up."

"N—Not at all."

"And, Hannibal..”

"Yes?"

Will pulled back a moment, watching the way his hand gripped around Hannibal’s erection as if studying it.

"We need to talk about…"

He licked a wet stripe right across the slit and Hannibal nearly lost it.

"Can we—I think it would be more fitting, to discuss that later," Hannibal stuttered slightly, head leaning against the tree while Will sapped away his sanity. "In person.”

"Yes. Good point."

"Then, Vincent," he spoke gently, "as a doctor, I’m prescribing for you a night for sleep.”

Vincent laughed. "Then I guess I have no choice. Thank you."

"Always a pleasure. Make sure to take plenty of time to rest before you start driving.”

"I will. I," Vincent paused a moment, the word suspended in the air. "Yes. Have a good night, Hannibal."

"You, too. Goodnight.”

Hannibal ended the call immediately and dropped his phone in the snow. "Oh, my God," he breathed. Rapture swallowed him. He weaved his hand into Will’s hair and clenched.

He knew from how slow and sensual Will was going that he was enjoying every moment of it. His tongue pressed against all the right places. He felt brave and tried to take Hannibal an inch deeper, and Hannibal groaned. “Oh, yes... My boy...”

Will took a moment to breathe, hot air falling on Hannibal’s cock. His hand squeezed and rubbed around the head, coordination improving quickly. When Hannibal’s breathing grew more laborious Will sped up his wrist and lapped his tongue at the top part of the shaft until he finally took the head and an inch further in his mouth.

The waves of pleasure pulsing through Hannibal rose higher and higher in the familiar way that said he could come at any moment, and he started breathing heavily, quickly, uncontrollably. He took Will’s hair in a white-knuckled grip and tried to pull him away, stuttering, “Will, I—wait—” But Will didn't listen and continued sucking, faster, pushing his tongue rhythmically against Hannibal’s shaft.

“God. Oh, yes. Yes. Yes. Fuck—” Hannibal only had a half moment between this poor attempt at holding himself back and the moment when the overwhelming need to come overtook any and all judgement. His other hand also flew to Will’s hair and caught it in a painful grip, and he held Will’s head desperately down as contractions began to shake his body. He threw his head back against the tree and his stutters turned into gasping moans. The orgasm seized and ripped through him.

As his breathing receded, Hannibal’s hands finally fell out of Will’s hair and Will recoiled from between Hannibal’s legs. He sat up, covering his mouth as he coughed and swallowed the last bit of thick liquid pushed into his throat. Immediately Hannibal pulled Will onto his lap and slammed their mouths together in a ruthless kiss. Hannibal encompassed Will in his arms and crushed him to his chest as he cupped his face, forcing his lips open so Hannibal could push his tongue inside and taste himself smeared in the back of Will’s mouth.

Will melted. He relished in the broadness of Hannibal’s body compared to his own, clutching the fabric on Hannibal’s back as if he would fall. Without registering it at first he rubbed the erection obscenely jutting out from his pants onto Hannibal’s thigh.

Hannibal pulled one arm off of the young boy to slip down between their bodies and pull Will’s pants open, without breaking the kiss in the slightest. Will sat up on his lap and wrapped his arms around Hannibal’s neck so he could kiss him deeper. He buried his hands in Hannibal’s hair. Hannibal finally tore his zipper open and reached inside to pull out Will’s cock, completely hard with precum having made a wet spot in his briefs. Hannibal gripped him in a tight fist and Will pulled away from the kiss to moan.

But just as quickly he went in to kiss him again, leading with his tongue which Hannibal received against his own and then took in his mouth like they were intent on devouring each other. Will’s hips thrusted into the hand, so Hannibal changed his rhythm and kept it still and tight for Will to fuck. When Will broke away again it was to moan repeatedly in a feminine register. His hips jerked in a frenzy and his forehead leaned against Hannibal’s.

One hand was back of the boy’s neck; small, pale and delicate in his hand, to maneuver Will’s head back and open his neck to him. Will clenched the lapel of Hannibal’s coat, gasping for air, while Hannibal sucked and licked and bit his way up and down Will’s neck like an animal.

With every thrust and whine Will was begging—senselessly and deliriously—for more. Hannibal took over, running his fist from the base to the tip and massaging the cock between his fingers, all at a rapid pace, and Will’s eyes rolled back. He was coming to pieces just as he’d torn Hannibal apart minutes before and they wouldn’t stop until they were both in tatters.

He convulsed in Hannibal’s arms.

Cum dripped over Hannibal’s wrist.

Eventually they were in the car driving down the narrow road to Will’s house. Neither said a word.

Their luck in getting back before Vincent largely depended on how long he took to spend at his work before he left. Vincent was normally about an hour away from home, but early in the morning when there was no traffic on the highway he could make it home in 30 minutes or less. Meanwhile it had taken Hannibal roughly 20 to get to Will’s spot, but coming back included the minutes they had spent otherwise occupied.

Eventually the silence had become comfortable. Hannibal had turned the radio to the classical station with the volume down and the promise that Will could turn it off any time if it made him nervous. He never did and they were treated to some soothing violins and piano on the quiet drive.

When Hannibal finally spoke, he turned the music off and Will visibly jumped. “If you apply aloe vera or ice to your neck it will help the marks heal faster.”

Will raised a hand to his neck. He looked in the side window and strained his eyes to see his reflection. Sure enough, there were clear red marks in the places that still burned hot from where Hannibal’s teeth had been.

“How long does it take?” he asked.

“You have especially pale skin, so it could be a week or longer.”

“Oh...” Will said. “At least I have enough turtlenecks to, to last me through the week.”

Hannibal smiled to himself at the empty space beyond them.

Will’s eyes drifted on the dark trees flying past. “And what about you?” he asked.

“I might not need them. I’ve rarely been able to get hickies.”

Will turned around to see. It was hard, in the dark, but as they passed a street light that slashed orange briefly over them, Will could see he was right. Hannibal’s skin looked as if it hadn’t been even touched even though he could clearly remember biting it raw.

“That’s not really fair,” Will muttered. He stretched the seatbelt looser so he could raise himself up in his seat and move as far to the middle of the car as he could. After some difficulty he just clicked the lock open and the seatbelt slid away. Then he could comfortably raise up and wrap his hand around Hannibal’s neck. He held it in place as he fitted his lips against his skin. It started with one big kiss and then he latched onto him with his teeth.

Hannibal sighed out and leaned back to give him full access. Will continued, sucking harder and harder, his time with the intention of leaving him in bruises. He had to balance himself so his hand went again to Hannibal’s thigh, but Hannibal took it and pressed it against his cock.

Will gripped its shape and heard another groan. It took some strength to fight against the fabric of his pants to stroke him to hardness, but Will traced over the outline and found the head, which he rubbed with one finger on either side. It was soft but Will knew he could change that. He was impatient to move on to Hannibal’s belt and he was starting to undo it when he whispered hot air onto his neck. “Fuck me. Please.”

There was a pause. Then Will heard a dinging and saw the red turn signal light blinking. The car slowed and drifted to the side of the road. Will’s heart began to pound with excitement and a little pleasant fear, and he was just about getting his hopes up when he slid back into his seat and saw Hannibal’s unreadable expression.

Hannibal brought the car to a stop then clicked his seatbelt off to face Will. Will faced him already, moonlight slanted across his face.

“As much as I want to, that’s not possible right now,” Hannibal told him. “Even somebody older than you would need to be prepared first.”

“I can take it,” Will insisted.

“Have you ever fingered yourself?”

“No.”

“At your age and with your lack of experience, even that would be too painful.”

“Painful at first, but I can get used to it.”

Hannibal cupped Will’s face in his palm, and pulled him close to press a gentle kiss to his mouth. Despite Will’s frustration, his tension collapsed onto itself. His body fell limp at the touch.

“Trust me,” Hannibal whispered, “there’s nothing I want to do more than take you in the backseat and fuck you until you forget your name. And I will, but not tonight.”

He picked Will up by his sides and pulled him onto his lap. He pulled a lever next to the seat to shift them back and give them more room in front of the wheel as Will wrapped his arms around Hannibal’s shoulders and pressed a passionate kiss to his mouth.

Hannibal unzipped Will’s pants and Will immediately urged his hips forward, but Hannibal had other plans. He instead wrapped his arms around Will’s waist and pulled the end of his sweater and shirt over his head in one. Will let it happen, nervous at first when he felt the blow of the hot air from the AC on his bare back and he was suddenly very aware that anybody driving by could see him, naked from the waist up, sitting in this older man’s lap.

The most nerve-wracking sensation of all, however, was the way Hannibal’s dark eyes ate up every inch of him. Because they were in a car and all the sounds were contained inside the small space, their breathing only competed with the AC blowing faintly in the back of their minds. Every word thundered.

Will warily started working at Hannibal’s pants as Hannibal, with his hands on Will’s waist, pulled him closer and pressed his mouth to Will’s neck in a way that barely resembled a kiss. His tongue touched skin before his lips, and the moment Will felt the contact on his skin the arousal devoured his fear whole.

He pushed his fingers into Hannibal’s hair, closed his eyes and let the pleasure quake throughout his body. In that moment Will would have done anything to please him.

Lie exposed, bent over the hood of the car and let himself be violated.

Let Hannibal tie him to his bed where Will would lie supine and exposed for Hannibal to pin down, kiss, bite, choke, and fuck as hard and long as he wanted. He wanted to feel the full force of everything and anything Hannibal could do to him.

He was quickly becoming addicted to the feeling of Hannibal’s skin, the heat underneath his jaw; the light scratch of the faint, unshaved beard above his lips. There was nothing even close to this feeling of being so held. So owned. Hannibal’s shaft was so hard in his palm. Hannibal gripped his thighs with one hand so tightly it was both too painful and not painful enough.

It was a few minutes before Will exploded in Hannibal’s hand, and not long after that when Hannibal’s groans started to climb, and his hands, still coated with Will’s cum, were shoved down Will’s pants groping his ass as Will jerked him off.

Will leaned in and kissed him on the lips once lightly, then moved in deeper with more tongue, which Hannibal savored. He leaned his head back and Will obeyed the cue, sucking on his neck. Hannibal’s hands tightened and clawed down to Will’s thighs as he groaned.

Then Hannibal’s voice came so rough and boiled in lust it didn’t sound human. “Bite me,” he whispered, “please.”

Will had no reservations. He sunk his teeth into his flesh and Hannibal bucked into his hand, letting out the most carnal groan Will could imagine. With another bite, cum was shooting on Will’s stomach.

Ten minutes later they were approaching Will’s house. Fear weighed in the air heavier than before as Will began to recognize the street signs. There was no telling, especially with the time they’d spent parked, if Vincent was home yet.

They arrived in front of Graham house to see the porch and kitchen lights breaking through the darkness and Vincent’s car in the driveway.

“Dammit,” Will whispered.

Hannibal didn’t stop the car there. He drove until they were out of sight from the house, slowly as to not attract attention, then stopped on the side of the street. Will was messing with his shirt, one part in particular on his stomach that was sticking to his skin.

The spectacle and the reminder of Will’s lean, pale stomach, especially the way Hannibal’s cum had looked on it, stirred his arousal to life yet again. Hannibal could hardly believe at his age that his slacks were getting tighter for the third time. Unfortunately, he knew then was not the appropriate time.

“There’s another door through the back,” Will said, pulling on his sweater. “I have the keys.”

“I can bring your father outside for a few minutes, so you can use that time to sneak in. I doubt he’s checked your room yet. He would have called me if he found you were missing, but likely he’s just gotten home and will be doing it soon.”

“Okay. Wait just a second until I get around.” He shifted towards the car door, opened it and had one leg out before he stopped and stared back at Hannibal, lights flashing in his eyes.

Hannibal stared right back at him, and Will searched for it long and hard, but he couldn’t find one ounce of emotion.

Without an ounce of hesitation he crawled over the seat again and hungrily crushed their lips together in a deep, open-mouthed kiss. Hannibal grasped the back of Will’s neck with a strength that made Will’s knees buckle, so Will’s hand roamed over the man’s thigh and rubbed the crotch of his pants. He found the cockhead in an instant and pressed the heel of his palm against it. Hannibal moaned into his mouth. Will chose that moment to pull away and move the rest of the way back out of the car, leaving Hannibal panting. "Goodnight, Dr. Lecter,” he said.

“Have a good night, Will,” Hannibal sighed.

The door shut. Will grinned to himself in pride as he trekked through the forest out of range from his house lights, replaying the sound of Hannibal’s voice in his head. He made him _pant_.

Hannibal took some time to bathe his hands in as much hand sanitizer as he had in his car, then drove away and made a U-turn up the road to come back and park in front of Vincent’s house. When he was done he thought it had been enough time for Will to get to a safe area, so he stepped out of the car and walked up the porch to ring the doorbell.

There was a short delay, but eventually Vincent opened the door. He stood in casual jeans and his Cornell sweater. His hair was uncombed like he had just rolled out of bed. When he saw Hannibal, he didn’t say a word at first. He just glanced away as a smile stretched across his face and the wrinkles around his eyes creased.

"I’m sorry if you were about to go to sleep," Hannibal said, “but I wanted to make sure you were home safely."

"That’s really nice of you… Too nice. Go back home."

Vincent began to half-heartedly shut the door and Hannibal stopped it with his hand. Vincent chuckled with his gaze shifted sheepishly down, and didn’t put up any resistance as Hannibal eased it open again.

"How are you feeling?"

"Tired, but better mentally. I just got back barely a minute ago.” Vincent leaned on the doorway, muscles sighing as he did. “The drive calmed me down."

"I’m glad to hear that.”

“Come on in, I’ll make some tea.” He leaned off the wall.

“I was thinking we might go for a walk instead.”

**Nocturne Op. 55 No. 1 (Chopin)**

They walked through the forest at a leisurely pace for a while before either of them spoke a word. Behind them, two lines of pairs weaved around the trees in no particular direction for about a quarter of a mile.

“I don’t have my phone right now, though,” Vincent said, “so I hope you have a vague sense of how to get back. You know I’m awful at directions.”

“That’s alright. Perhaps for the time being it’s alright to get lost.” Hannibal’s eyes were caught by the moon blinking in and out between the trees.

Vincent wasn’t looking at the sky; his eyes were down, watching the snow. They both felt their words were but a breath blown on miles of open air. Every moment swallowed the former and left them with nothing but the trees and the solitary moon against a plain backdrop.

"Do you know the poem ‘Stopping By Woods On A Snowy Evening’ by Robert Frost?" Hannibal asked.

"Yeah, I’ve read that.”

“I was just reminded of the last stanza:

‘The woods are lovely, dark and deep,  
But I have promises to keep,  
And miles to go before I sleep,  
And miles to go before I sleep.’”

A smile appeared like a ghost on Vincent’s lips. Time dropped by in shy notes, marked only by the crunches of their footsteps. Vincent hadn’t even considered the idea that being outside so late might’ve been dangerous. It didn’t feel so dangerous; it was more as if the world was standing still, holding its breath.

“I should take walks more often,” he said.

"It might be therapeutic for you to take a vacation outside your own head.”

“Let’s not talk about me right now. I don’t like always being the subject of the conversation… especially when it centers entirely around my instability.”

"I apologize,” Hannibal said. “Perhaps I’m not quite used to not being your doctor yet.”

"It’s okay. I don’t think I’m quite used to not being your patient yet.”

"Would you like to talk about anything in its place?"

They slowed from adagio to largo and grave, coming naturally to a stop underneath the cover of the trees.

"I don’t know," Vincent thought out loud. "How do you say something without talking?"

Hannibal turned to face him at an angle. Vincent was staring away into the distance, but as he turned back their eyes aligned.

Moments dropped from the sky, one by one, until Vincent stepped in front of Hannibal and pressed their lips together in a kiss. Hannibal twisted his face and kissed him back, and when Vincent felt him pushing in, he rested a hand on Hannibal’s chest and followed the curve of his body to the back of his neck.

Hannibal leaned in deeper and took another step to close the distance in between them. As their lips molded over each others’ once more Hannibal took him by the waist and crushed their bodies together. A brush turned into a grind, then they stepped backwards until Vincent’s back was against the tree trunk. Vincent grabbed at Hannibal’s clothes as their kisses grew messier and harder.

Within no time Hannibal had him bent over to hold onto the tree trunk, and fucked him mercilessly until Vincent was gasping, swearing Hannibal’s name and dripping cum onto the snow.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you guys who're commenting so much for your feedback. it's truly so appreciated :')


	6. Six

**Waltz Op. 69 No. 2 (Chopin)**

When Vincent awoke the next day he felt like the dead rising from the grave. He rolled over and read the clock to be 10:34, but contrary to the normal well-rested, refreshed feeling of waking up in the afternoon, his body and mind felt like lead. Probably, he knew, because he’d gotten home at nearly 4:00 that morning. Not to mention what happened after. Through his aching there was still a piece of him that glowed. He was lucky he had already planned on commuting to work later in the day, as per Jack’s request for him to get some more rest.

He checked his phone to see no texts. Made sense; it was still a little early. He opened up his messenger app and had gotten through ‘Thank you again for’ before he erased it and turned his phone off. Hannibal would text him when he was ready.

When Vincent finally headed downstairs, the crackle of a frying pan pulled him out of his reverie and the classical song stuck in his head he couldn’t place. He came down to the kitchen to see Will cooking over the stove in a black turtleneck.

“Hey…” Vincent’s voice sounded foreign to his own ears. He rubbed his eyes with the heel of his palm. “You’re making breakfast?”

“Yeah,” his son replied. He continued to flip some strips over with a spatula. There were already a few rows of bacon next to two plates of seasoned eggs over-easy.

“How long’ve you been up?” Vincent walked around the island in the kitchen and came up next to him.

“Just about 30 minutes.”

Vincent took the spatula from Will’s hands and started checking the strips himself to make sure they were all cooked through. “I thought I told you not to use the stove.”

“I know.” Will reluctantly stood aside, watching his dad inspect each piece. “I was just hungry, and I’ve seen you do it a million times," he said.

“It’s not that I don't trust you. I’m just a worried dad, you know; don’t want you to burn yourself. It feels just like yesterday you were using the stool in the closet.”

Vincent gave a smile not directed at but clearly for Will. Will was leaning on his elbows over the counter—he could see the foggy reflection of his tired eyes in the tile. “Not my fault you gave me short genetics," he said.

“Your mom’s will make up for them later. Eventually, when you hit puberty.”

“Not going to lie,” Will muttered, “I think I’m already hitting puberty.”

“When it happens, you’ll know it.”

“I think I know it.” Will looked up. “Will I be able to cook on the stove then?”

Vincent huffed a laugh from his nose, similarly to how Will did. “Sure. Still,” he added, in a different tone, “next time just call me if we need any food. You don’t have to worry about cooking for yourself yet. You’re only 13, you know. Even if you are 30, mentally.”

Will pursed his lips because he knew his dad couldn’t see it; Vincent wasn’t looking at him. After a few seconds he finally replied, “Okay. I’m sorry.”

They sat across from each other at the breakfast table eating when Will mentioned, “I'm going to Alana’s today.”

“Got anything planned?” Vincent idly checked his phone for the fourth time that meal. Still nothing. It was threatening to worry him but he told himself that if Hannibal didn’t text by 2, he’d do it himself.

“Not really. Just hanging out, maybe watching some TV. I don’t know.” Will pushed his food around the plate.

No, 3, Vincent told himself. Maybe 4, just to see how it played out. But Hannibal would definitely message by 4. Probably on his lunch break when he got a second to breathe.

They sat in silence for a while longer. Will wasn’t eating a lot, to the great appreciation of Winston and Max who were sitting beside Will’s chair, wagging their tails eagerly. Harley was shut in the sunroom because the last time he was allowed to wait for leftovers, he had tried to jump onto Will’s lap and knocked a glass over.

Eventually Will gave up on food and set the plate down for his dogs to finish. “I'm going to go,” he said, stepping over them.

“Okay, have fun. Be safe.”

Will headed up the carpeted stairs to his room so he could get dressed, the sound of his plate sliding over the tiled floor playing behind him until he closed the door.

The next time he saw his dad was when Will came partially into the study and knocked softly on the open door. Vincent was standing facing his bookshelf, phone up to his ear, and looked back to Will with raised eyebrows. Will mouthed, “I’m going.”

Vincent nodded and smiled. “Be safe,” he whispered. Just then, Jack came back to the phone and called his attention back. “Okay, great,” he answered. “No, it’s okay, I’m coming in soon—”

Will left down the stairs and to the back of the house. He got to the sunroom where Max and Harley were sleeping peacefully next to the heater and looked behind him to see Winston with his ears perked up, tagging along.

“You want to come?” he asked. He looked at Winston as he unlocked the patio door and pulled it open with a hiss.

Winston’s tail wagged in response. “Alright.” Will left out the door and his dog trotted behind him happily.

**Pièces Froides: Airs à Faire Fuir No. 1 (Satie)**

It must have snowed hard since Will went to sleep because the forest was flooded that morning, more than he remembered it being before. It piled up against the trees and wrote thin lines of cursive across the bare branches. In many places Will had to raise his feet as high as his calves to step through the white sea, and at his heel Winston looked funny trying to walk like that and keep pace. Luckily the sun was just hazy enough that its reflection against the ground didn’t blind them.

There was no wind, only the soft crunching of Winston’s paws slightly behind him as they made their way through the trees. The sky was a pale grey mist. Any sign of civilization could be ignored in a place like this, once Will was too far from his own house to look back and just short of Alana’s. Out of sight of anything, he could’ve fallen backwards with his eyes closed and sank into the ground until it swallowed him.

The thought of it being cold didn’t enter his mind. He imagined it would be so cold it was warm. He would sink deeper and deeper and disappear. It was the insulation he craved more than anything; for the Earth to wrap its arms around him in a loving suffocation and not to stir again. The rush of satisfaction in such a forgiving death was indistinguishable from the profound revulsion lying just underneath.

Will emerged from this cocoon of thought when he passed a treeline and reached a clearing where the snow was thinner leading up to Alana’s back porch. Ms. Bloom’s potted rosemary and basil plants sat in the living room beyond the twin glass doors, peeking out from the window. A ceiling fan light was on but nobody was inside that he could see. Alana expected him around this time every weekend, though; it was no big deal if he just walked in.

Will got up the first step of the porch when a ball of snow punched him in the side.

He stopped in his tracks. A quick glance around the lawn revealed no one around him, so he pulled his duffle coat around to see the place where the snow had crumbled upon impact. It had come from a lower angle, so most likely from somebody crouching on the ground—

Another ball of snow hit in the exact spot as the last. Will snapped his head up in time to see a head of black hair ducking behind a bush.

Will smiled and sidestepped to the far side of the porch where Alana couldn’t easily see him from her position. “You’ve made a dangerous enemy here,” he called, kneeling to the ground and gathering snow between his gloves.

Nobody answered. Will chuckled and once he had packed the snow together, he stood up and inched closer to her hiding spot. He knew he had the vantage point with his height—an opportunity he wasn’t about to let go to waste since standing up Alana was three inches taller than him. And she gave him hell for it, of course.

He held the snowball above him, tense and ready to fire the moment he saw her hair, but as he stepped closer and closer, he peeked over the bushes and saw nothing behind them but snow. As soon as his confusion registered a hard ball of snow smacked him hard in the shoulder and the next one square in the left cheek.

He spat out ice and dropped his snowball as he doubled down, only to get pelted with several more. He had to hold up his arms to give him a chance at protecting himself, shouting, “Mercy! Mercy! Jesus!” Once the bombardment stopped he heard laughing coming from behind another set of bushes.

“You alright?” the voice asked.

Will looked to the source and saw Alana’s head poking up from behind the brush. She came out from the side, pushing her long dark hair over her shoulders as she walked forward.

“You’re a mercenary,” he groaned, shaking with laughter. “Yeah, I’m okay.” He saw the white streaks on her knees and gloves, figuring she must have crawled away after the initial strike while he was distracted.

“I feel like that one scene from Elf,” Alana said, kneeling down next to him.

“I was thinking more Dumb and Dumber.”

“Oh—” she laughed.

Will dug his hands under the ground and launched a wave of snow at her.

Alana slipped as she simultaneously tried to shield herself and scramble away, but Will grabbed her leg and pulled her down toward him so he could shovel more and more snow onto her body. Alana tried to cover her face in the midst of her laughter, then retaliated by flinging fistfuls of snow from beside her at Will. Through the chaos she was able to clumsily crawl away until she was standing up again.

Will got to his feet, too, trying to form a snowball as fast as he could, but Alana was much faster and she threw a ball that hit him perfectly in his hands, bursting his half-formed one into pieces that slipped through his gloves. Within another half second, Alana had already packed another one that hit him in the arm as Will shamefully resorted to a defensive mode. All the while he recoiled away from her, protecting the vital organs and yelling, “Okay, okay, truce!”

“You betrayed the last one!” Alana called and threw another. “I can’t trust you!”

Will finally managed to get to his feet as Alana prepared the next one. He knew his only option was to find a bush to hide behind, but anything along the side nearest to them would be open season from her position. His only option was to cross the empty lawn to the other end of the porch. However, there, Alana had free range to hit him.

Will decided in a split-second to bite the bullet. He took off, making the dash across no man’s land as fast as his legs would carry him so that Alana only had time for one shot. Alana threw the one snowball with all her might and it soared past him by a few inches. The hard pellet of snow and ice smacked into her glass porch door with a bang so loud that both of them skidded to a halt and looked back in terror. The glass was smeared with white and shaking in its frame, but it wasn’t cracked.

Will and Alana stared at each other in mutual fear and awe.

It didn’t take long for Ms. Bloom to appear and pull the sliding door open. “Alana threw it,” Will immediately told her.

“He broke his truce,” Alana said. “He asked for mercy and then he attacked me again.”

“But I’m not the one who threw it.”

“But you deserved it.”

“How about you both come inside?” Ms. Bloom asked. She turned away while Will caught a glimpse of a smile on her face.

“Okay,” Alana said as Will called Winston over.

"Do be a little more careful next time, too.”

“We will!"

**Pièces Froides: Airs à Faire Fuir No. 2 (Satie)**

Will and Alana lay down in her living room with the twin glass doors giving them a view of the white world outside. The TV sat across from her black leather couch and an armchair turned at an angle, but neither of them chose to sit on them. Instead they pushed the coffee table out of the way so they could recline on the floor. The blue and green carpet was soft and cushioned them well enough. There was a heater in the corner of the room keeping the room toasty and Winston curled up next to it.

In the summer, things were nicer. They could leave the door open and let the breeze roll through. Sometimes a bird flew into the room by accident and they watched it until it either left or made too much trouble and Alana’s mom shooed it out before Max or Harley could catch it. Ms. Bloom worked from home as a translator—specializing scholarly books and research studies—so she was almost always home when Will came over. After coming in with them and making sure Will didn’t need anything to eat or drink, she returned to her office and left them to their own devices.

Alana sat against the couch watching something with her earbuds in. Will lay down a few feet away with a book he’d borrowed open across his stomach, staring up at the blank ceiling.

Time melted away until Will saw something moving out of the corner of his vision and turned to see Alana lifting her phone up for a picture. She was lying down now.

“Who’s that?” he asked.

Alana scowled as she captioned the photo and sent it. “Thomas.”

“Mm, yeah?” Will hummed. “How’s he doing?”

“Alright.”

“Alright...”

While Alana waited in anticipation for a text back she glanced at Will’s teasing grin and conceded, “He did text first this time, though.”

“Wow,” Will grinned. “Why don’t you guys get married already?”

“Shut up.” She got a snap back and opened it with that same smile.

Will sat up and crawled over to her. “Let me be in it.”

“He’s gonna think we’re dating.”

“Everybody already thinks we’re dating.”

Alana lifted the phone above them and took more than a few seconds to mess with her hair and adjust it over her shoulder. Will smiled, holding a peace sign, and when Alana finally found her angle she took the photo. Will rolled away as she captioned it: ‘nm, with this dumbass’. “When or if you come out, it’ll all make more sense,” she said, hitting send.

“Come out? As a special ed kid? Yeah, that’ll really help me climb the social ladder.”

“I mean after you leave special ed.”

Will bit his tongue before expressing his fears that that would ever happen. At the end of sixth grade he had asked his teacher, Dr. Maurier, and she said she would talk to Vincent about it. She seemed lukewarm at the time, which gave Will a few sleepless nights only for his dad to return home from the conference and say that despite trying to convince her, she’d insisted he should stay just one more year. Just one more year. Just like what she said last year. Instead Will replied, “Then I’ll just be demoted to gay best friend.”

“Demoted to? From what?”

“From... guy who puts the guys who have crushes on you on edge.”

Alana laughed. “No offense, Will, but I don’t think people see you as threatening.”

Will scoffed, rolling his eyes up at the ceiling. “Not true. I can be very threatening.”

“Will. Come on. You’re a softie.”

“That’s not true; don’t make me angry. You won’t like me when I’m angry.”

“No, you’re Smart Hulk.”

It wasn’t long after Will had gone back to reading that Alana broke the comfortable silence. “Hey.”

“Yeah?” Will laid the book on the floor and turned onto his side facing her.

“Are you okay?”

“What do you mean?”

“You seem, I don’t know. Elsewhere.”

Will took in an uncomfortable breath and glanced over at the window. It was snowing outside again, very lightly, but the footprints they made an hour or two ago were disappearing. The snow was burying everything. “I don’t know,” he muttered. “It’s nothing, really. Just a strange feeling in the air today.”

Alana nodded slowly. “Sad?”

“Like I’m high and sad.”

“Are you high?”

“You know, that would explain it, but no I’m not. Just sad.”

“Shame.”

“Yeah I bet you think it’s a shame.”

Alana looked at Will aghast. Will just kept grinning. “My mom is down the hall,” she whispered harshly.

“Sorry,” Will whispered back, even softer. “I’ll keep my voice down when talking about weed—”

She threw one of the couch pillows at him and it bounced off the arm he used to shield his face. He pulled it back to set it under his head.

Alana was quickly distracted when she got a new snap from Thomas, but then on second thought she put her phone down again. “Hey, but listen.” She paused to catch his attention. “If you need to talk, you know I’m here. Always."

A reply choked up in Will’s throat and he had to keep his eyes away from his friend at all costs. At the wrong moment they might well up and spill all the guilt raging inside him. He pushed the rising emotion back into his lungs and forced out the words, “Thank you. I appreciate that, I really do.”

Gradually the roaring waves urging him to leave this haven, bury his head in the snow, never come out, _see what it feels like_ , settled.

Winston decided to trot over and set his head on Will’s stomach and Will scratched him behind the ears as he read on. Associations crept from the sidelines of his mind and threatened to pull him back into a memory, so he secured himself further inside the living room with only Winston, Alana, and the white window existing around him. The silence was cleansing. For a minute he actually felt pure; untouched. Then his phone buzzed at about 2.

He figured it might be his dad again, who had messaged him earlier letting him know he was going in to work. So Will glanced at it, not expecting much, but he saw a different number instead and got a fresh shock to his system. The text read: ‘How are you today?’

Will picked up his phone, but he looked at the keyboard and the empty message line and suddenly he was illiterate. He couldn’t just say ‘good’ or ‘bad’ depending on how honest he wanted to be; he had to give him more to work with. But he couldn’t start typing or else the three bubbles would pop up and tip Dr. Lecter off that he was taking a long time to revise his message. But he had his read receipts on, too, as was his dad’s rule, so the longer he waited the more damned he was. Now he knew how Alana felt, Will thought solemnly.

Quickly Will decided on: ‘tired, but I’m alright. how’re you?’

Will watched ‘delivered’ turn to ‘read’ immediately. ‘I’m alright. Do you have time to call?’

‘not right now.’ Will was about to leave the conversation, then on second thought opened the keyboard again and chewed over this next text. ‘Maybe later?’

He had turned his phone off and laid it faced down when it buzzed again, and hesitation and fear ate at him throughout the five minutes he couldn’t muster the courage to pick it up.

When he finally forced himself, he read the response: ‘I’d love to. Call whenever you’re free.’

Will wanted to continue the conversation so badly. He racked his mind for anything else to say, anything else that would stimulate Dr. Lecter’s interest or be worth his time, but his wit was a ghost town so he just liked the last message and put the phone down.

Minutes crept by like seconds and seconds crawled past him in a continuous spell of apathy.. blowing through Will without the slightest grating on the walls of his mind. It was numbing at the same time it was filling.. but still Will’s thoughts floated in zero gravity in those walls pushed wide open.. passing in and out of him. He felt everything even as he felt nothing.. His whole essence was a lung.

He blinked and it was five o’clock. The world felt both far, far away, and as close to him as a limb. Peace. But nothing was okay and nothing would ever be again.

Alana stood up, exhaling. “I'm going to make some hot chocolate. You want a cup?”

“Yeah, thanks.”

He heard her socks slide when she made a Risky Business entrance across the kitchen tile floor and the cupboard door creaked open. Will only heard; his vision was dark. He didn't realize he’d closed his eyes and was a few moments away from slipping into sleep until he tried to speak and his words felt disconnected from him entirely. Paper crinkled. The microwave beeped. It was all a symphony.

When he saw a shadow pass over him he opened his eyes, blinking out the frosty, fuzzy white light gleaming in from the window. He sat up and took the cup from Alana’s outstretched hand, the mug she got for him on his 10th birthday. It was a soothing sea green with a white minimalist outline of a mountain and trees on one side.

She set the bag of marshmallows in between them so they could both take handfuls as they liked. They alternated between sipping their drinks and turning the pages of their books while the sun sunk down in the sky. Blue patterns of the trees on the living room wall blurred into darkness.

They heard Ms. Bloom coming down the hallway and looked up when she peeked her head in the room. “You both are going to ruin your eyes like this,” she said. She flipped a lightswitch and the lamp next to the couch flickered on.

“I already have contacts,” Will responded. “It’s too late for me.”

Ms. Bloom left to the kitchen. “Not too late for both of you,” she joked.

“I can’t actually think of anyone else who doesn’t have to wear contacts or glasses,” Will said to Alana.

“It’s so awesome we have to pay money to put something in front of our eyes so we can see,” Alana replied.

“Never thought of it like that.” Will’s eyes scanned his page for the line he last left off on. “We really live in a society.”

“Get a load of that society.”

Will turned that next page and found himself having reached the end of the chapter. He checked the time on his phone next to him, 5:34, thinking to himself about his options.

“I’m making pasta tonight,” Ms. Bloom called from the kitchen. “Do you want to eat with us?”

“No, thanks, I should have dinner there,” Will said as he shut his book and stood up.

Alana looked up at him. “Aw.”

Will took up both coffee mugs and walked to the kitchen, where Ms. Bloom was opening the pantry and judging her ingredients. He filled both mugs with water from the faucet and set them in the sink.

“You sure you don’t want to stay?” she asked.

“No, thank you.”

“Alright.” Ms. Bloom turned around to face Will and bent down to meet him with a solid hug. “Say hi to your dad for me,” she said. His chin rested on her shoulder, and he closed his eyes.

“I will.” They let go, and she gave him one last smile before he walked back through the doorway into the living room.

Alana had her book down and she was checking her phone, rubbing her eyes as they adjusted to the digital screen. “See you tomorrow?”

“Yeah.” Will slipped his phone into his back pocket, then picked up his coat from the hanger on the wall and pulled it on. Meanwhile, Alana was coercing Winston to come toward her with kissing noises so she could pet him and scratch him behind the ears one last time before they left.

After Will had gotten his shoes and coat on, he called Winston over and the dog came trotting to his side. “See you.”

“Hey. Feel better, alright?”

Will paused. “Thanks. I’ll try.”

Alana smiled at him more time and Will returned it.

So Will left and he and Winston walked down the snow-coated porch steps into the open lawn where snow lay in a perfect, undisturbed layer over the ground. Will took his gloves out from his pockets and pulled them on as he started walking, having to lift his shoes up to his ankles again just to wade through.

The sun was gone, but some mysterious natural light still illuminated the world in a dim blue, enough for Will to see his way back. He breathed out a deep sigh. The cold air traveled from deep, deep in the pit of his lungs through his trachea, pulling air from every inch of space inside, and then out his mouth to manifest in a furious frosty gust. He closed his eyes and he could feel like he had been renewed, inside and out. The palette had been cleansed. It was also the first moment when he realized how truly alone he was.

He stopped to take a look around and could see neither his house’s nor Alana’s house’s lights. No animals would dare scamper within miles of him. Winston’s presence was so subtle it faded out of his mind and dissipated into the atmosphere. He was completely, utterly, and unconditionally alone.

**Pièces Froides: Airs à Faire Fuir No. 3 (Satie)**

Will and Vincent sat at the table that night eating leftovers from the meal the day before. It always fell pitch black by six, while the fan above them projected orange-tinted light that gleamed off the wooden walls. That night was silent all but for the appliances humming in the ambiance, the wind rolling through the trees outside to brush against their window with a whisper every now and again, and the clinking of their silverware against the plates.

“How was Alana’s today?” Vincent asked.

“It was okay.”

Seconds passed and the breezeway in Will’s mind inhaled. Emotions flooded in but they had no name. They elicited no reaction and no response. He was glad to have reached that point where numbness turned to warmth.

“We made hot chocolate.”

“Oh, that sounds nice,” Vincent said to himself with a small smile. “You know, we have that caramel packet.”

Will looked up, eyes hitting his dad’s side of the table, off the very corner. “Yeah.”

“We should make some tomorrow.”

The chime of their forks played on without end. Vincent himself was feeling great. Finally he had caved in at around 4 and texted Hannibal a quick thank you for the night before and Hannibal replied within the hour. They had a short but sweet conversation that relieved Vincent of some of the weight on his chest.

“Hey.” Vincent looked up at his son. “Are you feeling alright? You seem kind of quiet.”

Will nodded. “Yeah,” he answered with no emotion. “I’m okay.”

Vincent considered his for a moment then let it go. “Alright. Just making sure.”

But Will wasn’t listening closely. His mind hung on by a thread.


	7. Seven

**Gnossiennes No. 2 and 3 (Satie)**

Will lay in bed contemplating. He stared out the window to the one streetlight gleaming amidst the forest void just to keep his eyes occupied. Meanwhile his brain was doing somersaults and twisting in every uncomfortable way, trying uselessly to use itself to grasp itself completely. Like a hand trying to hold itself, there was always a part that slipped out. He thought of a ball of yarn racing across the floor trying to wrap itself back together and in doing so became more hopelessly undone. There was no escape.

His alarm read 3:28 in bright red numbers. He knew he was spiraling and he had been for what felt like an eternity, and unfortunately there was only one thing he knew would put him on solid ground.

Will pulled the covers off and stood up, pulling a sweater hanging on the bedpost over his head before he left the room. The floor, luckily, was so well-built that the wood hardly creaked when he walked. Vincent had had a vital role in building the house himself, back before Will was born and before he’d joined the FBI.

Will walked down the hall a few doors to his dad’s room and peaked inside just to double-check he was gone, and he was. The bed was still unmade and his phone was missing. Will came to the dresser, a foot or more over his head, and stood on his toes to feel around the top blindly for his phone. Then he grasped its familiar shape and pulled out the charging cord from the bottom.

He looked at the home screen for a moment, again at the time, thinking really nothing at all. He’d exhausted all his mental somersaults and pole vaults and he was now just sitting with the still, deep water of all his emotions. It was somehow easier to make short-sighted decisions like this once he felt like he had exhausted all of the anxiety that made him hold himself back in the first place

As he walked back to his room, he went to his contacts and selected the right number, letting the phone dial as he slipped back under the sheets and pulled them up to his neck.

One ring.

Will never called anybody unless he absolutely had to. Awkward silences when neither person knew what to say were even more agonizing over the phone than in person, and the intrinsic sense of ‘disconnect’ kept Will on edge. But he also didn’t consider this on the same plane as any other phone conversation. In his mind, Will had separated Dr. Lecter from every other human as if they weren’t even the same species.

Another ring.

He never ended up calling Hannibal the day they originally arranged. The night passed and Will procrastinated until he had his phone taken up by his dad just as he knew it would be. It was a convenient excuse to tell himself there was nothing he could do now. He made sure to silence the notifications from Hannibal’s number specifically and he deleted their conversation on the off chance Vincent would do one of his random phone checks, but that next morning there were no new texts.

Another ring.

Sunday came and went and neither of them reached out, so at this point Will was wondering if he should ghost him completely. The idea was tempting as much as it was distressing. He was equal parts dying to hear his voice again and begging himself to leave the memory die. His indecision resulted in a state of paralysis.

Meanwhile, Saturday’s apathy grew into a sharp, stabbing pain, which grew into despair and then circled back into violent loathing. It all made him so ill that on Monday, the first day of his spring semester, he was throwing up and running a fever. He stayed home all that day, mostly sleeping whenever he wasn’t staring at the ceiling thinking and making himself sicker. Now it was Monday night and he was, naturally, wide awake.

Another ring.

Maybe Hannibal would be over it. Will probably deserved it for being so distant, he told himself, but he retracted that guilt immediately. The demented bastard didn’t deserve it.

Another ring.

It was probably too late to hang up now, and Will could feel embarrassment already itching under his skin in anticipation of when it would pick up.

Then the sixth ring cut off, and a voice came: “The hours at which you call continue to perplex me.”

Will hated himself for it as soon as it happened, but his nerves were strung so high that he burst into brief laughter. It was eerie hearing his voice contrast against the pervasive silence in his room, so he lowered his volume when he replied. “I operate on my own schedule.”

“Is that so? That’s admirable.”

“Is it?”

“If not exhausting.”

“For me? Yes. For you? You don’t sound exhausted,” Will said, smiling. “You’ve been up for a while.”

“I have.” Hannibal leaned off the wall in his living room where he was standing, dressed and having been active for hours. He slipped his hand in his pants pocket and walked leisurely to the couch. “Night is a more comfortable time than the day,” he thought aloud. “Full of solitude, but empowering if you’re inside your home, glimpsing the wilderness from a safe haven. Somewhat akin to feeling both vulnerable and indestructible at the same time.”

“So you’re saying you crave solitary confinement?”

It should have made Will sick to joke about it, but all of his guilt melted away as the most genuine chuckle he’d ever elicited out of Hannibal rippled through the phone and into his ear. His voice was velvet.

“You could say that,” Dr. Lecter replied. “You’d be correct. But I’m sorry, I’m going tangential. I was almost sure you had forgotten me; what finally prompted you to call?”

“My dad just left again—without saying anything obviously. I just, I thought maybe you’d want to know.”

“I see,” he said, after a pause. He sat down, getting comfortable for the conversation.

“And I’m sorry for not calling when I said I was going to,” Will admitted. He paused. “Even though I shouldn’t be. You don’t deserve it.”

“Oh?”

“With what you’ve done?” Will propped himself up on his elbow. “You don’t deserve anything but a life sentence. Either for being a serial killer or for being a pedophile; it’s honestly hard to decide. You’re barely human. I should’ve just—just run inside and told my dad you kidnapped me and killed Luke and you were going to kill me too.”

“You could have done that, but it wasn’t your blood on your shirt.”

“Fuck you.”

“You could have turned me or yourself in many times over and you haven’t. Why not? I’m genuinely curious,” Hannibal added in a condescending whisper that irked Will to the nth degree.

“I don’t know.” Will squeezed his eyes shut, grimacing at his own honesty. The words had just slipped out. “I mean, I’ve come so close,” he said. “So many times. But it’s a combination of, I owe you for helping me and if I turned you in you would turn me in too. And if what I did came out… I can’t imagine what it would do to my dad. I don’t know if he could take it.”

Hannibal nodded slowly to himself. “I understand.”

Will desperately needed to move onto a new topic. He sucked in a breath and said, “What did you do with Luke?”

“I disposed of him.”

“How?”

“In a way that leaves no trace of him threatening you or I.”

“ _Specifically_ ,” Will sighed, exasperated.

“It's simplest to say that the body is no longer in existence in quite the same state.” Somehow Hannibal’s smile was audible. The air changed a shade lighter, or plucked a new string a note higher and vibrated in Will’s ear. “You can trust me.”

“I—” Will sputtered a laugh— “I couldn’t disagree more.”

“I trust _you_.”

“Maybe you shouldn’t. Is it even safe to be talking on the phone like this?”

“It is. Will, I have plenty of experience hiding evidence from much messier crimes than yours.”

“It’s not that I’m worried about getting caught.” Will rubbed his face and swallowed, emotions boiling up in his chest. “I wish they would catch me. Everybody’s been talking about it. His parents and some of his friends were on the news. I couldn’t even watch it, and I threw up today just thinking about going to school. I just wish…” Will buried his face in his pillow. “I feel like I should kill myself.”

“My boy, don’t think that way.” Hannibal softened his voice. He didn’t quiet it, exactly, he just ironed it. Smoothed it out into a soft sheet for Will to fall on. “It’s a very human reaction to feel their pain; you should have compassion for yourself.”

“I don’t need counseling from a psychopathic pedophile,” Will muttered, words coming muffled through the pillow.

“Do you remember where he took the knife from?”

“Um…” Will rethought back as he turned his head to the side. He’d already suppressed so many parts of that memory. “His pocket, I think.”

“Then the weapon wasn’t already in his car in case of an emergency. He chose to bring a knife with him while he drove you home, and there had to have been anywhere from 10 to 20 minutes of waiting before he threatened you with it. That doesn’t sound like a drunken assault, or drug-induced impulsivity. This was a deliberate, planned desire to hurt you.”

Will paused, considering this. “Still.” He had become too hot under the covers and sat up against the bed frame. “There’s a difference between self-defense, and…”

“Enjoyment.”

Will was glad Hannibal said it, so he wouldn’t have to. “You’re the psychiatrist,” he said. He pulled his legs up to his chest and wrapped his arms around them. “Why do you think I reacted like that?” he asked, chin leaning on his knees.

“I thought you didn’t need my advice.”

Will sighed and paused a few moments, finding himself with no real explanation to counter that. It was true, he didn’t want a serial killer’s advice, he told himself. He hated Hannibal with every fiber of his being. It was just a slip of the tongue. “Yeah, good point,” he replied. “Goodnight, then.”

“Will—”

Will hung up and let his head knock back against the wall. His phone was off but Hannibal’s words came back to him, as if when they had been invited into Will’s room they would nest there forever. _Solitary confinement_. The dark seeped into his bones so much he felt like a statue. Then his phone lit up, ringing again.

He let it buzz in his hand until the very last dial before it would go to voicemail, then he answered the call and held it to his ear. “Yes?” he considered coldly.

“Good evening.”

“Dammit, you again?”

“My boy, you have to decide whether you want to throw me out of your life or pull me in,” Hannibal said, amused and contemptuous. Will was beginning to realize that trying to hurt somebody who didn’t have feelings was a losing battle—at least in the ways Will was currently trying to hurt him.

But Will could think of nothing to say to the last statement so Hannibal went on, “Here’re my thoughts: I think normally you feel guilty about having any sort of power. I know the look in your eyes when you’re stressing over every minuscule decision you make. You’re reluctant to have an influence over your environment; it’s evident of the self-criticism and guilt your father has passed on to you. It’s a bit like opening the floodgates, when you finally get an opportunity to take your life into your own hands and defend yourself, successfully, against somebody who wants to hurt you. And it’s not unnatural to take pleasure in hurting somebody who deserves it. Everybody does it, but usually in more socially acceptable ways.”

“I don’t agree with whether or not he deserved it…” Will said carefully. “Maybe I felt like it, in the moment. But you’re right.” He thought so, anyway. He wanted so badly for that to be true. If so, it would mean he could now keep himself in check to make sure the urge for power didn’t escalate to that level. It also meant he didn’t enjoy the murder itself but rather his own feeling of empowerment, and that was a much more favorable conclusion. So, technically, Will thought, he didn’t enjoy it. He was _satisfied_ by it.

Hannibal added, “Imagine for a moment if your friend Alana was in this situation. Somebody tried to assault her and she went a bit overboard; in the moment she felt the drive and the desire to hurt them. Immediately after, she was overcome with regret and grief.”

Will nodded to himself, slowly. “Okay. I see what you're saying.”

So he wasn’t the kind of person to enjoy killing somebody, Will told himself, it was just that in a moment of fight-or-flight impulse and overwhelming desire for power over his own life he reacted drastically. That was understandable. That was human.

“I can ease the family’s pain, if you’d like,” Hannibal said. “Give them an alternative story that would be easier to find peace with and eliminate you as a suspect.”

“If you did, that’d be great.” Will grimaced to himself while he said it, but he reasoned that if Hannibal was going to do something kind for another person, even if it was ultimately out of self-interest to gain Will’s confidence, that he should still be grateful. At least on the surface.

“Of course.”

“And what about the body?”

Hannibal exhaled through the phone in a way that made Will’s chest seize. “Why are you so eager to find a reason to distrust me?”

“It would make more sense than what's going on now. I mean, there must be a catch. It doesn't make sense that you would just trust me with this information when you have—” Will sputtered a laugh, gesturing frustrated while his nerves ran in a frenzy— “n—no clue if I'll do what you expect me to. You hardly know me. And I hardly know you. You say you’re retired but I don’t know how true that is.”

“You know I’m not the Snowman and you’re correct. Otherwise I can’t prove to you I am with anything more substantial than my words, but any promise I make to you is made of steel,” Hannibal told him. “I’m surprised you tolerate even knowing what I have done in the past, albeit vaguely.”

“It’s not so much that I’m okay that you’re getting away with—I mean, I have no idea what exactly you’ve done. But you’re not an immediate danger and I don’t have any real evidence against you, so then out of concern for my dad’s sanity, and since I’m kind of at your mercy right now I think I should just... lie low.”

“Interesting.”

“But again, that’s just _my_ word.” Will pressed his hand to his chest and felt the throb of his heart underneath, like holding his hand over the top of a shaking drum. “You know how much I despise this forced cooperation but you act like you know me well enough that you can put your life in my hands without a second thought.”

“Have I not been right about you thus far?” Hannibal asked. “You’ve had every opportunity to tell the police or your father about me and you haven’t.”

Will raised his eyebrows at this. “Why wouldn’t I tell the FBI right now just to prove you wrong?”

“Because you won’t.”

Will paused, chewing over this silently. He turned his voice down one notch. “But I could.”

Hannibal followed his lead and spoke even quieter. “But you won't.”

“You don't know that,” Will whispered, and a smile tugged at his mouth. If he was on his feet he wouldn't be able to stand.

“You’re trying to set me on edge, Will, but you couldn’t stir my faith in you if you killed me with your bare hands.” Hannibal’s mouth was right next to the receiver and his voice was a purr crawling under Will’s skin.

The words sat between them for a few moments until Will exhaled shakily through his nose. Perhaps an attempt to shake Hannibal out of him, but it failed. “So I just need to relax, huh?” he asked.

“It takes more control to lose control than it does to wield it.”

Will closed his eyes and slipped under the covers again, where warmth enveloped him. “You might be right,” he muttered.

Hannibal’s voice was tranquilizing and his anxiety was numb. His mind foraged for an explanation to this strange reaction, trying to justify a fear or desperately create a sense of danger, but no fear manifested. He just wanted Hannibal’s lips against his ear.

“Is it easier for you to sleep now?”

Will paused and then lied, “It's worse.” If he told the truth, Hannibal might hang up.

“May I prescribe something that will calm your nerves?”

“My dad doesn't want me on medication.”

“It's not medication, my boy, not in the literal terms.”

Will’s eyes opened halfway, processing. “I think my dad would disapprove of that even more,” he said.

“Your father relinquished any right to tell you what to do a long time ago. Now for this medicine to work, Will, you have to follow my instructions and do just as I say.”

Will thought about this as he turned onto his back. “I'm listening.”

“What are you wearing right now?”

“A… sweater and briefs.”

“Is it cold?”

“What? Oh, no, not in bed. I just had to get out for a second, to get my phone.”

“Ah, I see.”

“Do you want me to, uh..” Will regretted having said something as soon as it left his mouth. He should've just let him go on.

“Take your sweater off?” Hannibal finished.

“Yeah.”

“Sure. It might be too hot for you in a minute or so.”

Will set the phone on the sheets next to him to strip down to his T-shirt. The time spent away from the conversation allowed him to realize just how hard he was shaking and that his erection was making a shallow tent under the blanket.

He settled back beneath the covers and picked up the phone again. “Okay,” he said tentatively.

“Now I want you to take your hand and start rubbing it gently between your legs. On the outside of your underwear, don't go underneath yet.”

“Why not?”

“I thought we agreed you would follow my instructions.”

Will hummed, and pushed his unsteady hand down to grip the shaft of his erection, probably a bit harder than Dr. Lecter had intended, because a quiet groan he didn’t hold in followed.

“Are you already hard?”

“Yeah…”

“Massage your erection gently but do not wrap your hand around it. While you're doing that, tell me what aroused you so much already.”

“It's,” Will swallowed as he began doing as Hannibal said. He had to force the words out: “I think, just, your voice.”

“What about it?” Will sighed, this time in frustration. “I know,” Hannibal replied, “but the devil is in the details.”

“You must be a very detail-oriented person.”

Hannibal chuckled. “Alright, then tell me why you decided to do to me what you did that night.”

“I didn’t really decide anything. It just escalated. I started out wanting to taste the blood off of your fingers, and I'd never had anybody’s fingers in my mouth before. So I wanted to know what that felt like. Then I felt you were hard, and I’ve, you know… masturbated before, but I had never felt another guy’s..”

“Cock.”

Will took in a preparatory breath. “That,” he said, “in my hand before. Or in my mouth. It was curiosity, but it was a compulsion.” He paused. “I wonder if sex is forever going to be connected to murder for me, now, since I had my first sexual experience right after killing someone. That’s how serial killers are made.”

“In my experience, sex and murder are two separate processes which go together like complimentary flavors. You can certainly have one without the other, but both taste better if you blend them.”

“Can I ask a really macabre, personal question?”

“Certainly. I was wondering when we were going to get personal.”

“You’re funny,” Will replied dryly, but he was grinning. “Do you have sex with the people you kill?”

“Afterward, or before?”

“Either.”

“Occasionally before, depending on the context in which I find them. But I don’t have sex with the body post-mortem. Necrophilia is a bit classless for my taste.”

“Really?” Will was a little surprised at this. “But you like to be in control.”

“It’s not quite as cut-and-dry as that, my boy.”

Will sniffled a laugh. “You say that a lot,” he said. His hand was pressing harder on his erection now straining against the fabric of his underwear and it showed in the unsteady dips and pacing of his voice. “‘My boy.’ You said it a few times when my dad and I were over for dinner, too.”

“Tell me why. You can touch yourself now.”

Will pushed his hand underneath and he couldn’t get it around his shaft fast enough. He let out a moan. “Because I’m your boy.”

Hannibal’s eyes fell closed. He could have melted into the floor.

“Because you want to own me. The ‘ _my_ ’ signifies a possession; the ‘boy’ highlights my young age; my vulnerability, and—perceived—innocence.”

“Only perceived?”

Will chuckled. “Well, I made the first move.”

“Ah, yes, but I set off the signals.”

“The signals?” Will had a vague idea of what Hannibal was saying, but he was tired of talking and he wanted Hannibal’s voice to replace his in his head; to seep in so deep that when they hung up it was as far under his skin as if he had been on top of him.

“Yes. Not overt enticements or innuendos, but as I talked to you I was filled with such emotion and desire that I didn’t need to calculate exactly what I would say or how I would display my feelings,” Hannibal explained. “I simply let them rise to the surface until they fermented off me, and trusted you to answer.”

“A mating call?”

“Exactly. Have you ever seen two animals mating?”

“No.”

“Have you ever seen two humans mating?”

“Not… in real life,” Will muttered.

“Ah, but on the internet?”

“Let’s just say I learned how to disable the parental restrictions on my computer a long time ago.”

Hannibal chuckled. “Humans are animals. Clever ones, but animals nonetheless, and never are we closer to animals than in intercourse. A patient once told me a story: he owned a female cat, and under certain circumstances he was unable to have her fixed like he intended, so she went into heat. Cats’ heats aren’t like dogs’. They’ll continue through a heat cycle every few weeks until they’re either fixed or impregnated. The patient who owned her also had a male cat that had been fixed, but the female’s heat temporarily reverted him back to his instincts. He would grab her by the neck and throw her down, crouch over her while she presented for him, but he didn’t know how to go further. I believe that’s the dance we were doing that night I had you and your father for dinner. Inside, you knew what to do—how to use your teeth, pin me down, and dominate me. You did so with your words. But physically you were not ready.”

“I think it’s interesting that in this scenario you’re the female.”

“Interesting indeed. Are you still masturbating?”

The last question threw Will off his train of thought. “A—A little,” he answered.

“I apologize, I can get carried away.”

“Then can you _carry_ yourself over here? I mean, can you come over?” Will thought about being underneath Dr. Lecter and the idea was chilling. His lips against Will's neck, and his hands, working him physically and intellectually from the inside out.

“I wish I could,” Hannibal replied, “but I’m not confident enough that I would leave before your father comes back.”

Will hummed in indignation.

“I’m sorry,” Hannibal apologized with a smile. “Now, I’ll keep my tangents to a minimum. I want you to concentrate on your hand.”

“Are you masturbating too?”

“I'd like to focus on you tonight.”

Will brought his hand to his mouth and sucked on two fingers, leaving them dripping with saliva, and when he slipped his hand back beneath the covers the new, wetter sensation made him sigh an airy moan he stifled.

While rolling his fingers over his length, slowly at first, he said, “If you came over we could go off on as many tangents as you want.”

Hannibal sighed. “Don’t tempt me.”

“But I’m trying to tempt you.”

“You’re doing a fantastic job.”

Will chuckled, quiet and shallow. “I’m literally inviting you to come over and fuck me and you’re saying no. Now I’m the female in heat and you’re fixed.”

“I wouldn’t fuck you yet.”

“Yeah?” The curse rolled off Hannibal’s tongue so fluidly but it didn’t fail to make Will quicken his hand, squeezing down the natural curve in his shaft, a technique that made him come every time. “Can you... elaborate?” he asked.

Hannibal gathered his thoughts humming. His voice was as smooth as if it were gliding over ice—sliding in Will’s ears and down his throat. “Naturally,” he began, “first I will acustom you to the feeling of having something inside of you. In the beginning you'll be exceptionally tight. One of my fingers will be more than enough to fill you. We’ll use plenty of lube, of course, to ease the process, so there'll be as little pain involved as possible. Then, eventually when you're used to one and it starts being not enough… when you push back on my hand, begging for more, and I can thrust inside you up to the knuckle with ease and your cock leaks when I rub my finger against your prostate, then we’ll move to two.”

“You sound like you've thought about this a lot.” Will’s words dragged against the walls of his throat, the same tone as the moans building in his chest. As he listened the pleasure grew from a sporadic rush to a steady flow, multiplied with every stroke and squeeze his hand gave.

“I couldn’t tell you how many dreams I've had of being on top of you, feeling my hips against your thighs, pressing into you, your hands clawing at my back, begging for it harder. If you knew the extent of my obsession you would be terrified... Will, let me hear you.”

Will squeezed his palm around the head of his cock and dragged it down the curve, pulling out a long and low moan.

“That's it, my boy. Long strokes, now. Slowly.”

Will did as he asked, breathing shallowly with every motion up and down. “You call me that,” he said, “what should I call you?”

“Just my name. My first name.”

“Okay…”

Hannibal spread his legs comfortably where he sat and rubbed his growing erection in idle motions while he spoke. “Perhaps instead,” he continued, “I could have my head between your legs. And swallow your cock completely. You can grab my hair and pull my head against you as hard as you need while you’re fucking my throat. You have such a beautifully thick cock for a boy your age; I know you could make me gag until I’m drooling down my chin. Will?”

“Y-Yes?” Will asked, breathless. Somehow Hannibal remained still so clinical when filth was pouring out of his mouth.

“I have some instructions for you. Take your hand away.”

Will did so with all the self-control he had. He laid his hand next to his thigh and gripped the sheets just to have something to distract him from the aching. “Okay,” he said, “I did.”

“Good boy," Hannibal murmured. "You sound as if you’re about to come.”

Will shivered inside and his back arched off the bed instinctively into empty air. “Say that again,” he pleaded.

“Will you call me by my first name?”

Will pursed his lips together, fighting the hesitation—luckily, any awkwardness was degrading rapidly, replaced by burning arousal. “Okay… Hannibal.”

“Good boy. Now, I want you to close your eyes. Use the tip of one finger and rub it against the head of your cock. Just a light touch. Follow my words.” He paused a moment while Will did as he asked. 

“I’m going to hold you still while I drag my tongue across the head, barely touching, and lick the trail of precum that I know is dripping down the side. Then swirl my tongue around the tip, perhaps allow the precum to fall back out of my mouth and drip down your shaft left maddeningly untouched. I’m gripping your thighs hard enough to bruise, and I want to leave marks.”

Will was imagining every moment of this in minute detail as he rubbed his finger in just the way Hannibal described. His near-silent moans were becoming more and more difficult to control. “God,” he breathed. “Yes.”

“I could make you orgasm like that, if you’d like to watch your cum collecting on my tongue and smeared on my lips.”

“Hannibal, please.”

“Yes?”

“Fuck me.”

Hannibal hummed. “Wrap your hand around your cock for me, now.”

Will wasted no time in doing this and the strokes set fire raging under his skin and he was moaning now with no willpower or desire to suppress it. His head fell back on the pillow. “God, I—I think I'm close.”

“Gentle strokes, then. Don't come until I let you.”

Will forced his hand off his length. He was harder than he could ever remember being. “Fuck,” he muttered, “okay.”

After a few moments of silence and feeling his orgasm fade back, Will held his shaft in a light grip and allowed himself slow strokes, up and down, every one making his legs and hips twitch and his heart jump.

“After all the teasing,” Hannibal went on, “eventually I would be so hard from hearing your moans I wouldn't be able to stop myself. I would keep you on your back; spread your legs around my hips and lift your body so I can press my cock against your hole. Then, inch by inch, fill you…”

Will groaned. “Yes, please.”

“Can you take it all, my boy?”

The urge to come was eating away at him but he held it back. “I can,” Will whined. “I want it.”

“I know you do. But I want to thrust in as slowly as I am able. By the time I fill you completely with my cock and my hips are flush against yours you'll be a panting, whining mess, begging for more and more. And I'm a patient man. I like to take my time, moving gently at first and letting you feel every inch stretching you wide open, and so I can revel in how tightly your walls squeeze my cock. You’ll know it when I press into your prostate. I wouldn’t be surprised if by then you’re leaking precum all over your stomach without even touching yourself. I may massage my length against that spot and bury myself in you over and over, molding you to my shape, until my patience breaks and I pin you down and fuck you until you're screaming my name.”

“Fuck,” Will gasped, as the pleasure electrifying his body made his stomach muscles clench and his legs shake. “God, I—can—may I cum?”

“Thank you for asking so nicely. Yes, you may.”

So Will squeezed his shaft and jerked it as fast as his hand would move. He exhaled heavily in a shaking moan as pure bliss flooded him. It swallowed his mind, and a high moan burst out of his chest with no filter. Cum dripped down his cock, in a steady stream at first, then shot in several ropes across his shirt.

Hannibal still hadn’t taken his erection out of his pants, but in hearing his boy in the throes of an orgasm he was rubbing the heel of his palm over the most sensitive part of his length, just below the head, and the stimulation was still so intense he knew he could make himself come like that if he tried.

As Will came down, he was panting. He milked the last few drops of cum out before he twitched once and the orgasm fizzled down to a sweet aftertaste.

“Will.” Hannibal pulled him gently out of his trance.

“Yeah?” Will whispered.

“You sound absolutely beautiful.”

Will laughed. “Th—Thanks.” He wasn’t sure what else to say. The compliment overwhelmed him.

He sat up in bed and supported his phone with his shoulder so he could use both hands to find a tissue to wipe his hand and shirt clean. “Oh, also, how is your neck?” he asked.

“It looks just fine.”

Will sighed. “I did my best. My neck looks like someone tried to eat me.”

Hannibal chuckled. “Goodnight, my boy.”

“Goodnight, Hannibal.”

“Sleep well.”

Will rushed to be the one to hang up first.


	8. Eight

**Liebesleid (or: Love’s Sorrow) (Kreisler-Rachmaninoff)**

Jack Crawford had to practically tear Vincent off the Snowman case, and even then Vincent was going over the evidence in his free time, looking for anything as small as a snowflake that perhaps they hadn’t pinned down. Still, he quickly changed the subject when he came over to Hannibal’s house for dinner and a glass or four of wine one Saturday night, January 11th. (Will stayed the night at Alana’s.) He was quick to tell Hannibal he’d rather discuss lighter topics; movies and traveling; stories and philosophies. It lit him up. His interest in the abstract was reinvigorated now, something he seemed to have misplaced during the past few years. He talked with a new energy Hannibal hadn’t seen in a while.

Not that the alcohol didn’t play its part. Sitting on the couch after dinner, he was flushed shades of red down to his throat, and when Hannibal commented on it Vincent pressed a hand to his throat in a moment of self-consciousness and chuckled. Then replied how alcohol was a powerful aphrodisiac, in the right circumstances.

In under ten minutes, Vincent’s slacks were on the floor and Hannibal’s were pushed down to his thighs. Vincent was on his knees, leaning against the couch arm while Hannibal thrusted into him from behind, hitting all the right places. He could hear Vincent’s breathing pattern change when it felt especially good.

Vincent leaned his forehead on the couch arm and felt Hannibal’s hand in his hair tighten. “God,” he groaned, “yes, yes…” Every thrust and the groans it pushed out created something like an addiction, a need to feel Hannibal forcing his walls open wider, wider.

Hannibal leaned down and pressed his hot mouth to Vincent’s cheek. “You feel sublime,” he purred in his ear.

Vincent twisted his head around and spoke with his lips moving nearly against Hannibal’s. "Can you turn me over?” he whispered.

"Of course." Hannibal rose up and let Vincent flip onto his back and wrapped his legs around Hannibal’s middle so Hannibal could lift him up to the proper angle.

"You’re still so polite," Vincent chuckled.

"I don’t think sex is any excuse to be…" Hannibal took his cock in his hand and pressed it against Vincent’s entrance, pushing in in one motion. He breathed out a moan, and finished, "Rude.”

Vincent laughed through his own sighs of pleasure. “Oh, God.” His head fell back on the couch.

Hannibal leaned down as far as he could and was immediately received with Vincent’s fingers threading through his hair, pulling him into a kiss.

At first their mouths moved against each other gently, and Vincent caressed down the curve from Hannibal’s head to his neck and back up. He felt himself sort of melting, slipping into the kiss and giving himself away in pieces while time passed like the steady drip of a faucet.

Vincent went upstairs shortly after, to shower and dress in the clean clothes he’d brought just in case he slept over, and Hannibal stayed downstairs a minute more to tidy up the kitchen. When he went back up to his room, the shower was on and Vincent was sitting on the bed on his phone.

“Is that Will?” Hannibal asked. He couldn’t see the screen since Vincent had his back to the door, but he got a strange intuition. Something about the tension in his body when he was typing looked familiar.

His intuition was right. “Yeah,” Vincent answered. “I’m just asking him how he’s doing. Everything seems to be alright.”

“Glad to hear,” Hannibal replied as he began to remove his vest and dress shirt. “How has he been?”

“Not bad.” Vincent turned sideways on the bed, half facing him. “Hey, I’ve been meaning to ask, what did you two talk about when I was gone that last time?”

Hannibal took a moment of pause while pretending to not recall every word and stutter that came out of Will’s mouth that night. Not to mention afterward. He had to; it had been five days since he talked to Will last. He knew Will had gone back to school that Wednesday, but he wasn’t answering his texts. “His school, mostly,” he answered. He laid his clothes in the pull-out laundry hamper in the wall.

“How’s his school?” Vincent’s phone buzzed again, and he picked it back up. “We talk about it, but I don’t know—he might have told you things he doesn’t tell me.”

“Nothing out of the ordinary.” As soon as Vincent’s phone was back in his hand, Hannibal walked closer to the headboard in a better position to look over his shoulder. From behind he could see the general direction Vincent’s fingers were moving and their speed. He cataloged it into his mind.

Vincent put his phone back on the bed stand. “The only people he spends time with are me and his friend Alana.”

With a silence settling naturally between them, Hannibal came over to Vincent’s side and the bed dipped under his weight. He watched Vincent smile unconvincingly and the way his laugh lines stretched with the quiet signs of age. Humble brown wisps of a beard graced his jaw, visible from where Hannibal was with his lips just a breath away from Vincent’s temple. There was a stray eyelash lying amongst the light freckles on his cheeks. It all inevitably reminded Hannibal of Will, though Will’s freckles were darker and more numerous. And his eyelashes were longer.

Hannibal brushed his thumb gently over Vincent’s cheek, sweeping the eyelash off. Vincent leaned backward, slowly like a trust fall, until he was lying on Hannibal’s bare shoulder, head against his neck, and he closed his eyes.

Minutes later, he was in the shower, so Hannibal went to the bed stand and picked the phone off the table where Vincent had left it. When he swiped up and it required a passcode, he envisioned how Vincent’s fingers had moved across the screen and copied the gesture. The phone unlocked.

**Serenade for Winds Mvt. 3 (Poulenc)**

It took a while, but eventually the subject of Luke’s disappearance faded into the background, no longer the topic of every other conversation at school. Most students’ consciences were settled after an anonymous source spotted him in Richmond with enough details that the police were convinced it was real. So it was resolved.

Will changed Hannibal’s contact name to ‘Dr. Maurier,’ his teacher’s name, in case his dad decided to have one of his random phone checks and noticed a familiar number. Will urged himself to just delete the number entirely, but he couldn’t shake the feeling that maybe he’d need it again. Just in case of an emergency, nothing else. He got a text from Dr. Maurier the day after their phone call that read, ‘Good afternoon, how are you today?’ and he deleted that.

Hannibal asked a similar question on Friday and that next Monday, but Will erased those, too. Then it was radio silence. For once Will was actually glad that he didn’t have his phone at night so when he woke up from that recurring nightmare of Luke sleeping right next to him, or of Luke on top of him, breathing in his ear, he couldn’t impulsively call Hannibal for another taste of that antidote.

However, Will worked out a system that first week that if he stole the contents of a nearly-empty box of his dad’s sleeping pills and hid them in his room, then Vincent would buy some more at the store. So Will had his own supply while he gradually picked from Vincent’s every other few days, as not to make himself obvious. That put him to sleep deeply enough that the nightmares mostly disappeared.

Will had thought long and hard about it and found that he wished nothing more than to put it all out of his mind. He wanted nothing more than to pack the entire wrecked situation up in a box and throw it in a river, never to be seen again. It killed him that he was still inadvertently helping Hannibal, but if he did it from a distance he could feel less guilty about his involvement in it. Perhaps then he could live with himself.

One Sunday afternoon, Vincent took him to a fishing spot they hadn’t visited in over a year. The snow was too thick on the ground to start melting, but the lake wasn’t frozen. They took their boat on the water, drove to the spot where Vincent said there would be the highest chance of activity, and threw their lines in.

The sky was overcast and grey, with the sun weakly illuminating the backs of the clouds. Looking at their watches required rolling down their coat sleeves and giving the biting cold a few moments to worm its way under their clothes, so it was difficult to tell what time it was. The difference between noon and four didn’t look an inch different. The sky would only change when a sudden darkness would descend mercilessly around them in a manner of mere minutes and leave them lost in pitch black. That hadn’t come yet, so between their arrival and nightfall there was a little slice of cloudy eternity.

It wasn’t comforting or terrifying. Just numbing. Will was finding it hard to feel anything more these days.

Two words swept him out of the time stream, not quite shy enough to ignore. “How’s Alana?”

“She’s okay,” Will replied. “Actually, her crush just asked her to the social.”

Vincent looked sideways at him and raised his eyebrows. “Really?” he asked. “Good for her.”

“Yeah. They’re not dating, but, you know, it’s only a matter of time.”

Vincent hummed and let the words sit, rocking with them on the calm water. Then something occurred to him. “The social?” he asked.

“Yeah,” Will said. “I mentioned it a while ago but there’s a school social on the 24th. This Friday. It’s okay, Alana’s mom is taking us.” He paused. “I think so. It’s possible Alana made new plans with Thomas, but I’ll ask her tomorrow.”

“I don’t remember there being a social.”

“We paid for it a few weeks ago.”

“How late is it?”

“From six to 10.”

“Ten?” Vincent raised his eyebrows. “Isn’t that a little late?”

Will shrugged. “Could be worse...”

He took a chance and glanced sideways at his dad, immediately regretting it and looking away when he saw no readable expression on his face. Now he braced himself for what he felt was the other shoe waiting to drop. “I can still go, right?” he asked.

A short pause. Then Vincent inhaled slowly in and Will knew it was already over. He bit his tongue, trying to suppress the frustration already building.

“I don’t know,” Vincent began, “10 just seems kind of late to me.”

“I can come back at eight or nine if that’s better.”

“Well it—then—it’s not really the hour that concerns me. It’s that…” Vincent chewed on this idea for a little bit trying to put it into words that sounded both sensible and empathetic. “With that boy Luke going missing so soon, I’m worried there's—It’s not a good time to be out at night, is all I’m saying.”

Will held his ground and steadied himself, eyes fixed on the white snow scuffed on his boots. “But there isn’t a person responsible for that,” he said. “Didn't someone in Richmond see him alive? Besides, if things were really that dangerous, they would’ve cancelled the social.”

“Look, Will,” his dad said, tone softening, “you’re right, and I understand you want to be around your friends. But you're 13. You have more than enough time to go to all the socials you want.” Vincent shifted his body to face the lake again, effectively ending the discussion. And Will had already accepted defeat, too. He knew how these conversations went.

He put his eyes back on the water besieging them on all sides. Once in a while it would call Will’s attention back to their position, a cloud or even a stain abandoned in the middle of the liquid chasm. They floated in the second, upside-down sky. It would have been beautiful had it not been so empty.

“I didn’t even really think dances were your thing,” his dad went on with a rejuvenated tone.

“I just don’t want to be pulled out of every single social event that would make me seem, I don’t know,” Will said, shrugging, “normal? How am I supposed to get experience talking to people if I’m not allowed to be around people?”

“I don’t take you out of every single social event,” Vincent insisted. He began reeling in his bait to the boat, slowly at first. “And you’re not abnormal. Don’t say that.”

“You did the last time, when Alana invited me to that football game with her friends.”

“Kids there can be so rough.”

“I know,” Will muttered.

“And you don’t even like football.”

“How would I know that if I’ve never been to a game?”

“Will—”

“I haven’t been out with anybody except you or Alana since the spring of last year.” Will usually never interrupted but he couldn’t keep the snap out of his tone. “March,” he specified, softer.

“Yes you have,” Vincent replied. He pulled his line out of the water and, seeing the worm still on the hook, pulled back and cast it in again at a different angle. The nearly invisible line flew toward the bank, like a crescent slice of white around them, floating on the water’s edge. “Don’t be overdramatic.”

“I’m not. Maybe I am normal, but I don’t,” Will struggled on the word, “ _feel_ normal.”

Vincent didn’t know what to say after this, he just exhaled. That was enough. Arguing with him, Will knew, was a delicate tightrope to walk. Will pulled back just short enough of crossing the line so Vincent didn’t feel as if he was quite justified in pushing the discussion over the edge into a lecture. When Will was younger, he was unable to read facial expressions or body language well, so every tiny disagreement boiled over into an argument. In the past few years or so he'd learned to adapt well enough that he knew when to just stop talking.

“Is there someone there you’re hoping to see?” Vincent asked. He looked at Will. “A girl, maybe?”

“No,” Will forced himself to laugh, like he was responding well to the change in tone. “It’s not like that.”

“You can tell me if it is,” Vincent teased.

“No, really. I’m not really interested in girls. Right now,” Will added. He moved the fishing line around a little and reeled it back a few feet, mostly to give himself something to do.

Vincent held out one hand in surrender, chuckling. “Okay, okay.”

“Yeah. I just want to be around… people.”

“There’ll be other socials to go to,” Vincent said, sounding satisfied with that explanation. “Lots of opportunities to hang out with your friends. You know, at, let’s say, safer times.”

“Does that have to do with the Snowman?”

Vincent visibly tensed, but still nodded. “Yes. Don’t worry, it’s been a long time since anything happened, but yes, we still have to be on our guard.”

Will knew that was a lie, but he held his tongue. It wasn’t worth it to let on that he knew too many specifics about the disappearance that was reported on the 12th in Snowman territory, much less how he knew about it.

Still, he turned the conversation in a way that would persuade his dad to keep talking about the case while seeming inconspicuous enough. “Do you think whoever did that made Luke disappear?” he asked.

Vincent exhaled and shifted in his spot, hunched over with his gloves wrapped around the fishing pole. An unusually hard push of the current rocked their boat back and forth. “I don’t know,” he admitted. “I know we handed off the case to Missing Persons after that call from Richmond, but something about it just didn’t feel right to me. Intuitively. It’s possible Luke caught him in the act and had to be,” he didn’t finish, just gestured into the air. “You know I don’t like to talk about work with you, though.”

“No, no, I know. But still, even if he did kill Luke that doesn’t affect my safety going to and from the social. That actually makes it a lot safer because you don’t have to worry about a new killer who preys on children.”

Vincent sighed. “Jesus, Will,” he whispered, “I don’t see why you’re being so argumentative about this. It’s one social.”

“I’m not arguing.” Frustration crept into his tone but Will took a second to relax and pull it back out. “It’s just, I have asked to go to games and the movies and shopping—and—you always say no.”

“You’re very intelligent, Will, especially for your age. Even compared to many adults. But there are some things you don’t understand. There’re experiences that come with age that you simply don’t have yet.”

“Maybe if I wasn’t stuck in a class with kids who have fewer social skills than I do—”

“Will, it’s better for you that you stay in that class.” Vincent’s voice was as tough as steel suddenly. “Yes, I know it’s tiring and frustrating for you, but your teacher promised me you’re not ready. I did my best to try and convince her. I really did. But one year’s not going to kill you. And missing one social won’t, either.”

Will sighed and frost blew out of his mouth. “Guess I’ll just have to wait until the world is safer.”

He knew he’d crossed the line when he felt the full force of his dad’s glare burning on his eyelids. “Will, I’m done with this, this melodrama,” he demanded. “You know I don’t enjoy being strict and I wish I could be that fun parent that plays good cop with you all the time, but I can’t. There’s only one of me here and I’m all alone in this. I’m doing my best, alright?”

“Okay,” Will muttered, “sorry.” He shut up and turned his attention back to the calm waters. His exhaustion, lying deep in his soul, had taken over and liquified his will to fight.

“I know you’re frustrated, but I’m your father and you’ll do what I say. You’re not going and that’s the end of it.”

“I know. I’m sorry.”

“Maybe if you started acting more mature you would be out of that special ed class. This is exactly why you’re not ready for it yet.”

Vincent’s irritation held steady for a few more moments until Will was decidedly playing the compliant role again, eyes down and quiet. Will knew from his reading that those were submissive body signals. A locked gaze would be to present them as equals, so eyes downward signaled surrender, which deterred the opponent from further aggression. It worked, sure enough. Vincent sighed, took his stare off of Will and let it go.

It was too easy for Will to take the conversation just a few steps further into: ‘I wanted us to have just a nice time this afternoon fishing and bonding like we used to, and here you are trying to argue with me. Why can’t we just spend some nice time together? Or are you too grown-up for that now?’

The line between Will’s memories and his internal voice of eternal criticism was blurred. Will couldn’t remember his dad ever saying those things, even if he had, even if he would. He wondered if he had blocked it out. But he still put the blame on himself again for even trying to blame Vincent for his own insecurity. His guilt was a stone dragging him deeper and deeper under the water.

Will faded out for an unknown length of time. Not into sleep but into a daydream with no shapes but the silky colors of the winter landscape moving in waves across a half-conscious vision. His eyes drifted over the trees on the shore and he caught sight of a black crater ripping through the white. A stag. It didn’t run but passed in between the tree trunks, dreamlike. Long hair around its neck swayed around him like a mane.

Then it stopped and turned its head to stare at Will, and its dark eyes pierced him. Will watched him without a breath in his lungs.

The stag dropped his head and walked on his original path. Eventually the trees grew too thick to see and the black animal disappeared from view.

It shook Will to his core. He made sure to take his sleeping pill that night.


	9. Nine

**La Campanella (Paganini)**

Will thought later that perhaps it was best he didn’t go to the social. Alana was already going with Thomas and Will knew he would probably just end up being a third wheel. Even if he tried to go off on his own, Alana and Thomas would inevitably end up feeling bad and hanging out with him even if it meant sacrificing their time alone, and Will dreaded that idea even more. So he didn’t bring up the subject again.

After school on Friday, Will texted back and forth with Alana giving his opinion on her outfit. Even though he made sure she took every bit of his fashion advice with a grain of salt, she still insisted that as the gay best friend it was his obligation.

It was about six that night, the same time as the social was supposed to start, and the sky was already dark. Will was sitting on his bed editing his and Alana’s conclusion for their science project, computer on his lap, trying not to pay attention to every minute ticked away. But he heard a distant knock and took his earbuds out.

“Yeah?” he asked.

His dad opened the door halfway. “He should be here in a few,” he said. The white dress shirt caught Will’s eye as unusual. Vincent was adjusting a black tie under his turned-up collar.

The formal attire made Will pause; Vincent had even brushed his hair to the side, and a faint scent of cologne drifted in the room.

“You’re wearing a suit,” Will stated outright.

“Huh?” Vincent looked down as if he’d forgotten. “Oh, yeah.” He flipped the collar down and laughed nervously. “It’s a bit of a nice place, so I don’t want to embarrass myself. Hannibal and I are going out tonight. Sorry, it was kind of last-minute but I thought I’d mentioned it before.”

Will went pale. “Hannibal?”

“Dr. Lecter.”

He turned back to his computer screen. “Oh, okay. No, sorry, I must’ve forgotten.”

“No worries.” Vincent stared at his son for a few more moments, leaning on the doorway. His eyes shifted away then, looking briefly around his room; he licked his lips with the intention of a reply but no words to match up. “Did you—are you thinking about watching something?” he asked.

“I don’t know yet.”

“Ah.” Vincent backed out of the room slowly, but keeping one hand on the doorknob while he paused. “I’m sorry for leaving you alone tonight.”

“It’s okay.”

“Hey, you know, we should go fishing again this weekend.”

“That sounds good.” Will deleted a line from the conclusion and began reworking it. “And honestly, I don’t mind being alone.”

“I know you don’t, I’m the same way.” Vincent chuckled. “Just call me if anything happens, alright?”

“Okay.”

“Alright.” Vincent smiled and patted the doorway as he began to turn away. “There’s food in the fridge but I can—oh.” His hands went down to fumble in his pocket for his wallet. “I’ll leave some money on the counter in case you want to order something.”

“Oh. Thanks.” Will paid him a sideways glance.

“No problem. Just remember not to answer the door and leave the money outside. You know the drill,” Vincent said while pulling out some cash. “Okay,” he chuckled, “I’ll stop bothering you now.” He retreated the rest of the way into the hall and waved a short goodbye. “Have a good night.”

“You too.”

Vincent closed the door behind him. Will picked up his earbuds off the bed and put them in again, hoping some music would keep him from throwing up.

A minute later, he heard the doorbell ring from downstairs. He took out one earbud in time to hear the front door open and his dad’s voice, “Hey.”

Will knew whose voice would be next but even Hannibal’s simple reply, “Good evening,” made his whole body tense. It had been nearly three weeks since he’d heard that icy timbre.

A pause. Vincent laughed. “Wow, you look wonderful. I’m almost ready- I’ll be just a minute more, if that’s okay.”

“Perfectly alright. I apologize for arriving a bit early.”

“No, no, that’s alright. The sooner the better.”

The two walked farther into the house, and when Hannibal spoke again, his voice was louder. But it was much different than Vincent’s. The walls seemed to bar Vincent’s voice from traveling too far, like it did most peoples’, but Hannibal’s glided through solid matter like radio waves. It went down Will’s mind like a smooth drink to soothe an ache.

“Is Will here?” he asked, coming up the stairs.

“Yeah, he’s in his room.” The footsteps stopped, and there were a few seconds of a pause. Will had to mute his laptop and strain to hear what his dad whispered next. “He’s not feeling very social right now. Not that I blame him.”

“Even so, I’d like to say hello, if that's alright.”

“I mean, you can, but if he’s a little rude please excuse him.”

Vincent walked up the rest of the stairs and went down the hall to his room, but Hannibal lingered a little longer. About a minute passed and he was still existing somewhere without a sound. Will, waiting for him to arrive, stayed frozen to the spot and stared alert at the door. Then two knocks sounded and Will realized that it wasn’t Hannibal’s walking that he had heard but his dad’s. Hannibal could move without a sound when he wanted to.

Will took a deep breath, wiped his sweating palms on his jeans, and went to the door without any real plan. He was starting to worry that his original plan of moving on with or without Hannibal’s permission might be impossible.

When he opened it there was Dr. Lecter, a tall shadow dressed in a three-piece navy suit, and against the contrast of his white dress shirt he carried the same level of subtlety as lightning. “Hello,” he greeted.

“Hi,” Will replied simply.

“How are you this evening?”

Will leaned against the doorway, still very much blocking his way inside even though Hannibal, being almost two heads taller than him, could have swept him aside with ease. “Fine,” he said.

Suddenly the door hit him in the back and out slipped Max, bounding up to the stranger with his tail wagging excitedly. Hannibal knelt down to pet his head and Max sniffed his jacket, sticking his nose in his sleeve to get a better scent.

Will had the urge to pull Max back in his room and slam the door. Instead he just stood there with steaming energy only visible in the tremor in his hands, which were shoved in his pockets.

Hannibal looked up at Will as he scratched Max behind the ears. “May I come in?” he asked.

“No, thanks.”

“Your dog likes me.”

“Max likes everybody,” Will said. “It’s not a strong endorsement.” He glanced briefly down the hall to confirm that his father wasn’t just there watching there.

Hannibal smiled and stood up as Max took interest in something else downstairs. “Your father’s down the hall,” he said, having read Will’s mind. He lowered his voice and whispered, “I only want to talk.”

Despite Will’s pounding heart, he wanted to hold his ground. “Okay,” he said, sucking in a breath, “what do you have to say?”

“You’ll have to forgive me. I’m not up to date with the colloquial language of today, but I believe I’ve been what you call ‘ghosted.’”

Will squeezed his eyes shut and let his head knock against the door frame in exasperation. “God.”

“Did I use it incorrectly?”

“No, you used it right but somehow that’s even worse.”

Hannibal tilted his head at the same angle as Will and leaned toward the doorway. “What are you doing tonight?” he asked.

“I was supposed to be going to a social...” Will pursed his lips at the hardwood floor. “But alas.”

“What happened?”

“My dad won’t let me.”

“Why not?”

“I don’t know. Ask him yourself. The world is a dangerous place, or something like that.”

Hannibal nodded slowly. “And I take it you understand how comical that is,” he said.

Will had his eyes turned down to the floor, but Hannibal’s face wasn’t far away and his eyes searched for a connection Will was terrified to make. “Your efforts to manipulate me are noted,” he replied instead.

“That’s not my intent at all.”

“Really?”

“Really. If I was manipulating you, my boy, you would not notice.”

Against all better judgement, Will laughed and hung his head. He hated the way those words ‘my boy’ made him feel. “That’s not comforting at all,” he said.

“And I think if I was trying to manipulate you I would tell you that I’m the only one who can give you the power and freedom you desire, and that as long as you evade me you’ll be subjecting yourself to a life of misery, but that’s not true,” Hannibal said. “You were the one to stimulate your own change. I’m just one of the fortunate few with the opportunity to look in your eyes and see the hurricane forming.”

Will wished he could step back in his room and slam the door in his face, but his body wouldn’t move. He felt, rather than saw, Dr. Lecter’s gaze burning on his skin. The heat soaked in and went straight down.

“Would you like to go to that social?” Hannibal asked.

The question caught Will off-guard. There were no words he could formulate to accurately express what he wanted to say. “Not really, I guess.” He fidgeted his hand on his belt loop and scraped the leather of his belt; he was growing restless and the building anxiety had to be released in some form. “I know he’s just trying to protect me. I don’t want to disregard that.”

“I can convince him to let you, if that’s what you want.”

“I know you can,” Will said, and he couldn’t help but smile a little bit while he sucked on his bottom lip. The pain felt oddly satisfying. “Maybe I should save the rest of my three wishes for later, though. How many have I used up?”

“Well, your first was Luke, then I crafted a story for his disappearance.”

“So I have one more.”

“Not exactly.” Somewhere along the way, Hannibal had gotten too close. His breath caressed Will’s cheek as he whispered, “You asked me for one more thing that night but I couldn’t fulfill it for you then.”

Will’s throat was dry like the bones of what had once been a sturdy barricade around him. “What’s that?” he asked.

“I think you remember.” Hannibal’s eyes were on his bottom lip, now slightly red from where his teeth had pinched it.

Hannibal had a unique way of giving him short-term amnesia, wiping out everything that made Will want to avoid him like the plague. The fact he was a serial killer, a psychopath, a pedophile, and a constant reminder of what Will had done and the guilt that killed him every night; Hannibal swept it all away with a slight of hand. Devoid of reason, suddenly all Will wanted was a way to relieve the aching between his legs and a chance for Hannibal to pin him against the wall and do unspeakable things to him.

Will’s heart beat in his throat and it hit just right. He was high as a kite. His eyes closed as he answered, “I asked you to fuck me.”

“Yes.”

Will gave him the slightest smile. “And you lied to me.”

Hannibal closed the rest of the distance and pressed his mouth hard against Will’s. Will’s knees nearly gave out under him and to save himself from falling, he wrapped his arms around Hannibal’s neck and pushed back into the kiss feverishly. His mind melted as Hannibal’s hands roamed around his waist and pushed underneath Will’s shirt. Every inch was bliss. Will swore he could taste Hannibal’s own words off his tongue when it invaded and immediately conquered his mouth, taming his tongue, drugging him, turning him to liquid, Hannibal’s own wine—

They heard a door close down the hall and separated immediately. To their side, the hallway was empty, and Will leaned breathlessly on the door frame while he deduced that the closed door must have been the bathroom conjoined to his dad’s room. This meant that they had a few more seconds, but only a few more seconds.

Hannibal must have worked out the same logic. He brought his lips to brush Will’s ear and whispered, “I’ve never lied to you.”

Will felt a palm on his stomach and before he knew it he was gently nudged into his room and the door was pulled shut.

Moments later he heard his father’s door close. “Alright, you ready?” Vincent asked.

“Sure.”

Will was confused until the throb in his groin came to his attention and he looked down at his jeans to see the reason why Hannibal didn’t want him in the hallway when his dad came out. Even though he was safe, secondhand embarrassment gripped him when he realized that Hannibal had saved him yet again.

He sighed and collapsed backward onto his bed.

A knock came from his door and Will bolted up, ready to cover himself, but there was no need. Vincent told him from outside: “Hey, Will, we’re going to go. Call me if you need anything.”

“Okay.” He paused awkwardly. “Have fun.”

“Thanks. Stay safe.”

Footsteps down the stairs told Will when they were gone. His whole being was on fire. They couldn’t have left fast enough for Will to pull off his clothes as soon as he heard them leave.

Will did end up watching a movie that night, lying on his stomach on his bed with Winston sleeping next to him. It was still proving difficult to concentrate on anything else when his mind always wanted to be elsewhere.

He looked at the time on his computer and did a quick calculation. Vincent and Hannibal had left at about 6, and now it was 7, so they had to be well into dinner by then. Will couldn’t slam the brakes on his impulses before he paused the movie and picked up his phone to text Dr. Maurier, ‘are you with my dad right now?’

He turned off his phone and sat it next to him on vibrate. He knew the answer was yes, so he expected a reply ten or twenty minutes later, maybe even a few hours. But just thirty seconds passed before his phone buzzed. Will checked it.

‘I am. Talking as I’m writing this.’

Will smiled to himself and his thumb moved on the keyboard before he had time to second-guess himself. ‘it’s not polite to be on your phone at dinner’

‘Yes, but I have my priorities.’

Will grinned and typed, ‘wish i was blowing you instead.’ Then, in the next message: ‘imagine me on my knees in front of you right now, kissing you up the inside of your thigh, begging for a taste.’

The three dots popped up opposite his message. They paused, returned, then a message appeared: ‘You are extremely talented at making me hard in situations where it’s not appropriate.’

‘have fun with that. now stop being rude.’

Will set his phone to the side with a beaming pride that he didn’t process, question, or shame until a minute after the brief conversation ended. But no amount of embarrassment could make him forget the way it’d made him glow.

**Gnossienne No. 4**

Will waited until 2 that morning to gather his courage and text Hannibal again. Vincent had been too much in a serene daze to remember to take his phone that night and went to bed a few hours earlier. Obviously Will didn’t remind him.

‘are you up?’ he sent. Read 2:20. A call came in at 2:21.

Will took a deep breath in and purposely waited about four rings before he answered and pulled himself to sit up against the wall behind his bed. The moon outside glowed a barcode of silver on his face in the pattern of his blinds. “Hey,” he said. “Do you ever sleep?”

“If I can expect you to call me every morning, I won’t want to.”

“I’m flattered.” But despite his sarcasm, he was.

There was an awkward silence. Or maybe it was just awkward on his side, Will thought, but this was exactly what he was afraid of before. Perhaps the rapport they had the first time was just a fluke, or he remembered it being better than it really was.

“How was the dinner?” Will asked, and then kicked himself.

“It went well.” Hannibal paused again, but it felt intentional this time. “Your father nearly thought he’d locked himself out of the house,” he said. “He had forgotten you changed the password on Fridays.”

“Oh. Thursdays, actually, but yeah.” Will exhaled a bleak laugh. “Is he going insane?”

“The better question is, do you think he’s going insane?”

“I think he’s already insane. He told me the other day I was immature and that’s why I’m in special ed.” Will paused as a little bit of common sense seeped into his wound-up mind. He leaned his head back on the wall and was a little worried when it sounded louder than he’d intended. “Why did I just tell you that?” he asked, a bit quieter.

“I’m glad you did.”

“That’s not how it happened,” Will explained. He rubbed his eyes with the heel of his palm. “He didn’t say that. It was more like he said it was a good thing I’m still in special ed _since_ I’m immature. Correlation, not causation.”

“Do you believe that?” Hannibal asked.

“I don’t know, honestly.” Will shrugged tiredly. Hannibal’s voice was already putting him to sleep; the way it kissed his ear.

“You shouldn’t. It’s manipulation.”

“Sounds like the pot calling the kettle.”

“Of course; and I know what manipulation sounds like better than most.”

Will exhaled. “I guess so.”

Another pause followed, but not as awkward as before. He was starting to put his trust in Hannibal’s control of the conversation. Will might’ve been the one to instigate the call, but he knew that didn’t really mean a thing. No matter what plans or choices he was free to make, or any way he moved his pieces, Hannibal owned the board. And that thought wasn’t nearly as uncomfortable as he wanted it to be. Will shifted his eyes to the window and watched the tree branches bend and shake with the wind. It was a full moon that night.

Deceivingly gently into the phone, Hannibal murmured, “Did you masturbate after I left?”

Will didn’t answer. He knew that if he told the truth, it would lead them into a much different conversation, one that a part of him desperately wanted to have but knew he had to prioritize over. “What do you want with me?” he asked.

“You know what I want with you.”

“Yeah?”

Will waited, expecting something else, but he got nothing. He was starting to get used to that pattern. And as annoying as it was, Hannibal had a unique way of driving him even crazier when he wasn’t speaking than when he was.

“Is that what you were hoping to ask tonight?”

“No.” Will sighed, frustrated, and turned onto his side. “I guess, my question is just, _why_ are you doing this? Just go away. Leave me alone.”

“I can’t. I want you,” Hannibal answered. “I don’t mean I just want to fuck you, although I do, more than you can imagine. I want you like… the tide bends to the moon. Because it doesn’t have a choice.” The rustle of clothes, sounding like Hannibal sitting down, crept through the receiver and tickled Will’s ear. “Because I’ve never wanted anything, any crime or vice or fetish, as much as I want to hold your gaze for two seconds.”

“Oh,” Will breathed.

“I know you harbor many reservations about me, and logically so, but an overwhelming part of you, severed completely from morality and self-preservation, seems to think past them. You could ruin my life with one word to your father, and yet you feel compelled to show me mercy.”

“That has its limits,” Will stopped him before he could go on. “If you’re lying to me and you’re still active, and still out there doing those things, I don’t care what happens to me. I’ll sell you out immediately.” His words cut like a knife held against Hannibal’s throat. “You’ll go to prison, and maybe I will too, but at least we’ll be in different prisons.”

“I believe you,” Hannibal replied. “And I’ll keep that promise. But I don’t think I’m naive, either, in believing that the part of you that doesn’t put up a defense craves me as much as I crave you.”

Will processed this for a few moments. He stretched his body, groaning subtly as he did, “Of course I do. I’m a hormonal teen. I crave literally everything.”

“We both know it’s more than that, my boy.”

 _My boy._ Will throbbed all over.

He exhaled, and after having stretched and snapped and put up a good, earnest fight, throwing up wall after wall after wall, Hannibal performed his best trick yet. He pinched the end of Will’s fear and pulled it straight out of his lungs. Will closed his eyes with unprecedented clarity. Nothing mattered. There were no expectations for him to fulfill and nothing to guilt himself over. Simply a voice in his ear and the darkness, a blanket, settling around his shoulders.

“I’d like to keep my third promise to you, if you’ll let me,” Hannibal whispered.

Will smiled. “I’ll let you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Your comments/kudos mean the world to me. Thank you so much for all your support!!


	10. Ten

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bit of a short chapter but an important one nonetheless! Hope you enjoy.

**String Quartet No. 8 in C Minor Mvt. I (Shostakovich)**

That next Monday, the 27th, Vincent’s alarm clock screamed him awake in time for work. He sat up, rubbing his tired face, but as he stretched the feeling in his body came back in the form of a throbbing ache. It was nearly impossible getting out of bed. Every muscle was begging him to stay in bed for the rest of the day—or the week. He considered taking a day off, but he’d heard of a disappearance the day before that’d landed suspiciously in Snowman territory and decided to push through.

The soreness was odd, but Vincent chalked it up to sleeping on a wrong muscle or just exhaustion from the week before hitting him all at once. What was really worrying was the two-inch bruise on his bicep.

He’d experienced the phenomenon of unexplained bruises before, but not ones this large or placed so oddly. He figured he must have knocked his arm on something and forgotten. That afternoon he did more research and read some studies linking anxiety to blood clotting. But still, it lingered in the back of his mind.

**Concerto for Two Violins in G Minor (Vivaldi)**

“Will’s spring break is the second week of March. Ninth to the 13th.”

“Do you have any plans?” Hannibal asked, before taking a sip of his wine. The sky was twilight against the strings of lights glittering up and down the pier, glimmering in Hannibal’s wine and in Vincent’s eyes.

Other tables with couples having their Valentine’s Day dates sat around them (the Saturday before Valentine’s Day still counted) but Hannibal had, through whom he called “friends,” secured them a table at the end of the deck, right next to the water. And both of them had agreed as soon as they walked in that nobody looked nearly as good as they did.

“There’s a lake house we go to every year,” Vincent replied. “Well, we haven’t been good about it in recent years, but we decided we would this year. I just need the time to collect myself.” He sat back, legs crossed, gazing down at the waves where the sparkling crests lapped gently against the legs of the deck. “Would you be able to come?”

“Depending on my work, perhaps. But I wouldn’t want to interrupt your father-son time.”

“Honestly, I think it’d be nice to have a—a little bit of a buffer.” Vincent laughed a little in his stutter. “Things have been tense lately. And, I’ve been feeling guilty about leaving him alone so much lately.”

“During your day or night shift?”

Vincent smiled, a half grimace. “Both. I’ve been trying to stop that, though. Haven’t gone in a week or more,” he said. “And that’s the honest truth. In any case, I think having you there could make it easier for us to gradually work things out; less pressure, you know.” He nodded to himself as he thought this over, index finger idly tracing the smooth curve of his glass. Then something else occurred to him. “Not that that’s the only reason I’d like you to come,” he added. “But you’re very diplomatic. You have a serene air about you that might help balance us twin neurotics out. Besides, you two seemed to have a great dynamic last time.”

“I would love to,” Hannibal agreed. “As long as Will is okay with it.”

“I’ll ask him.”

Vincent looked as if he was about to say something else but they were interrupted by a waitress who came up next to them with their orders on a platter. “I have some seared hokkaido scallops?” she asked, holding out one plate.

“That’s mine,” Vincent said with a smile, and she set it in front of him.

“And braised lamb.” She put the second dish in front of Hannibal, then took up their plate of oyster shells for an appetizer and left after promising to come back with a second glass of wine for both of them.

A few minutes passed in comfortable silence while they enjoyed their meal. Vincent looked as if he was in bliss. Hannibal enjoyed it too, but dissecting the flavors in his mouth and deducing how he might alter the recipe to suit his tastes was just as engrossing. Vincent often wondered how he managed to get someone like that to date him. He considered it nothing less than a miracle that Hannibal remained attracted to him after years of seeing the worst sides of him on a fairly consistent basis. Just watching the man sitting across from him, it was hard not to stare all day and night wondering what he could be thinking.

“About this vacation,” Hannibal began, calling his mind back. “I would love to go, but what worries me the most are the implications of going to a lake house with you and your son.”

Vincent pursed his lips. “Good point. Not exactly a platonic thing to do.”

“Of course we’ll keep the intimacies to a minimum, but even my presence there might be…” Hannibal trailed off in the middle of his sentence when he happened to glance up at the right time and saw Vincent wiping his mouth with his napkin, obviously to distract himself from the heat building in his face. “Did I embarrass you?”

“Just because of how nonchalantly you said it.” Vincent waved his hand, dismissing it quickly. “I'm sorry. Go on.”

“If a passing comment like that can rattle you then I can’t imagine how embarrassed you’ll be tonight.”

Vincent covered his eyes with one hand and groaned, laughter shaking his shoulders. “God,” he pleaded.

“I can go on.”

“Oh, you don’t have to.”

“Are you sure?”

Vincent’s grin stretched wide enough to reveal dimples on either one of his cheeks. “Very sure.”

Hannibal cut into his dinner again, smiling. “Very well.”

“Anyway,” Vincent picked up, “you’re right about that. Will’s scarily perceptive sometimes. I wouldn’t be surprised if he hasn’t figured it out already and just hasn’t brought it up.”

“That’s a possibility.”

“And honestly…” Vincent turned serious when he exhaled out of his nose and licked his lips as he thought this over. “I’m thinking about telling him.”

He was watching carefully for any flicker of emotion, good or bad, but Hannibal didn’t seem to have any reaction at all. He was unshaken as he simply cut into his meal again and asked for clarification, “About our relationship?”

“It might hurt at first but in the long run, it’s better that I’m honest with him,” Vincent reasoned. “You guys seem to have a good rapport and I think it would be refreshing for him to spend some more time with another parental figure. Someone more stable and—and different, but in a good way. I know you’re not his mom, but you care about him and it’d be nice for him to have a wider support system. That could also be what the lake trip is for, so you guys can talk and he can come to trust you; see you as a role model. Not like a parent but like a parental _figure_ , I mean.

“I’m not saying this,” Vincent gestured to both of them, “is serious. I don’t want to rush anything. But as long as it is going on, and since he is a big part of my life and you’re also a part of it… You see what I’m saying.”

“I do.” Hannibal took a sip of his wine, giving himself a second more to think over and synthesize. “And I do believe we should tell him, eventually, but I don’t think now is an appropriate time.”

“Why not?”

“Your relationship with him has been tenuous recently, as I understand. Coming into the family, so to say, would put more stress on you two than I believe you can handle right now. There are plenty of wrong ideas he could get about you or I—perhaps that I’m coming to replace his mother, or that you favor me over him.”

Vincent pursed his lips in doubt and reluctance as he watched the fairy lights glitter over the deep blue water. “That might be true,” he agreed reluctantly.

“Is he aware of your sexuality?”

“We’ve,” Vincent paused reluctantly, “never really talked about that.”

“Then that will complicate things even further. It’s not that I don’t want to take that step eventually,” Hannibal explained, “but now isn’t the time.” He reached across the table, a signal to take Vincent’s hand, and Vincent gave it to him with a small hesitation.

But as soon as Hannibal caressed the top of his hand with his thumb, Vincent’s discomfort dissipated, slipping right off the deck and diving into the next swell of the ocean around them. “You have a point,” he admitted. “I just hate lying to him.”

“Perhaps after or during the lake trip would be better. Depending on how it goes,” Hannibal suggested.

Vincent nodded. “Alright,” he said. “Going to the opera together isn’t too suspicious, though, is it? Because _Carmen_ is the Sunday immediately before spring break.”

“I don’t think it's suspicious.” Hannibal pulled his hand back. “Are you looking forward to it?”

“Oh, yes, definitely. I haven’t been to the opera in a long time.”

Another thing weighed on Vincent’s mind that he was considering telling Hannibal, but in the end he decided against it. He liked the levity that accompanied all of their conversations since he’d stopped treating Hannibal like a free psychiatrist, so he didn’t dare mention how hard it was for him to sleep these days. Or how sometimes his heart beat like a drum with no conductor. He was sure Hannibal had heard about the recent disappearances around the woods, but Vincent didn’t let on about the circumstantial facts that connected them to the Snowman.

He knew if he brought it up, Hannibal’s nurturing personality would take over and sap all the romance out. So Vincent didn’t say a word.

**Je Te Veux (Satie)**

‘so you’re coming with us to the lake house next month?’ Will texted Hannibal the next afternoon. It was a few minutes before his phone lit up with a response from where it sat on the bed beside him.

He picked it up. ‘Your father suggested it. I’m looking forward to the change in scenery.’

‘it’s a lot of fishing/hunting, hiking with the dogs, cooking over a fire, stuff like that. we try to live off the land as much as possible.’ He paused and then went on: ‘other than the things I mentioned we’re open to suggestions though, sometimes we’re stumped for ideas. have any ghost stories?’

‘A few, yes, and I have some other ideas.’

‘Like?’

‘Where’s your father right now?’

‘work. you didn’t answer my question, though.’

‘It’s a bit much to type, may I call instead?’

Will smiled to himself. ‘I mean, if you insist.’

Will knew the time they spent texting and calling was just biding time until they had the chance to be virtually alone again. Although if the next time they were bound to see each other in person was during spring vacation, he thought he might go insane.

They had ironed out the details of what exactly their relationship was and it was established early on that they weren’t exclusive. Will set that rule himself and Hannibal agreed, albeit a bit reluctantly. But Will stood firm in it. The agreement was that both of them had the freedom to have sexual or romantic relations with anybody they chose as long as they were transparent with each other. Not that Will had any intention of that; and not that Hannibal expressed even a remote desire for anybody else. But the sentiment was there.

Will worked up the courage to ask his dad if he could keep his phone by him while he slept, since he was a teenager now and had proved himself to be responsible in the past, and Vincent said it was alright. Ever since then, Hannibal had teased Will that he immediately abused this privilege. Or perhaps the late-night conversations were just more distractions so that Will didn’t have to put himself at the mercy of the nightmares that came. They were less frequent now. When one did rear its ugly head, it was about something else almost completely divorced from Luke, but there was no mistake what triggered it.

Another thing Will didn’t like to think about was that he was without a doubt an accomplice at this point. The details of that side of Hannibal’s past remained vague and Will liked them to stay that way, but it almost made it more frightening. His mind could run wild with all the possibilities, being that all of them could potentially be valid. He tried his best not to think about it, and Hannibal was talented at pulling him out of that spiral with a simple but firm tug on the rope.

Hannibal was as open and honest as he was a complete mystery. There were certain things Will would ask and he would answer with such startling honesty that Will got used to asking the most blunt questions he could think of.

He noticed it particularly on Valentine’s Day. Will had been anticipating the day all week; knowing Hannibal, there was a good chance he would pull some kind of stunt. As Will was having lunch at school, he got an interesting text from a Dr. Maurier. ‘When you come back from school, you’ll want to check your front porch. At least before your father comes home.’

‘Will do.’ he replied.

After Ms. Bloom drove him and Alana back, Will excused himself home for chores. And he walked up to his front porch to see a white box, not much larger than his hand, with a card trapped underneath the red ribbon. A small bouquet of red, yellow and white wildflowers laid next to it. What was even better was what Will found inside the box when he took it inside and up to his room. One level was a mix of caramel-filled and white chocolates, and the next underneath was an assortment of variously shaped dog treats. Will found out, texting Hannibal afterward, they were all homemade.

“Of course they are,” Will chuckled, lying on his bed. “Jesus, thank you. That must have taken a long time.”

The card wasn’t actually a card at all, but a charcoal drawing—sealed so it wouldn’t smudge in his hands. On it Hannibal had depicted a bare forest landscape, small enough to be a postcard but detailed enough that Will stared into it, transfixed, with his other hand holding his phone to his ear. He swore the shadows behind the trees moved every time he looked.

When Will heard the sound of his dad’s car backing out of the driveway late that night, he was alive with energy. He called Hannibal, who of course was awake, having the sleeping habits of a vampire. The conversation was steaming and Will was starting to commit to memory the sizzle and groan underneath Hannibal’s voice when he was aroused.

Something possessed him. “Do you ever jerk off in your suit?” Will asked.

And Hannibal didn't miss a beat. “On the occasion," he said.

“In your office?”

He hummed in confirmation.

Will could almost see the image moving on his blue wall, where the ghosts of the trees beside his window shivered. “That sounds really hot,” he whispered. “You know what I want to see, though?”

Will could hear Hannibal’s clothes rustling. “What's that, my boy?” His voice was beginning to sound strained.

“You, jerking off in full attire, coming on your vest and your jacket.”

Hannibal sighed, half in agreement and half in a moan.

“I want to see you lose control..." Will quieted as he heard a few clinks against his window, like somebody tapping on the glass asking to crawl or slither their way inside. On his wall, the shadows were crying. It wasn't long before the tears blended into each other and the clinks into one hiss after another of the roaring wind.

“It’s raining,” Will muttered indolently, rolling from his stomach to his back.

“Snap and you might turn it off.”

Will smiled to himself and raised his fingers above him. He snapped. Nothing happened. The rain kept falling and thunder lulled in the distance. But he did feel for just a moment as if he could have called the storm to a halt.

Hannibal never failed to send his mind reeling, or to tease out things Will never expected to say. He was as intellectually addictive as he was sexually magnetic. Equal parts poetic and filthy; elegant and raw; brilliant and sometimes just the right dose of absurd.

Will tried to voice this as little as possible. Of course he never would have admitted outright just how obsessed he was, or that it wasn't so much keeping Hannibal out of his mind anymore as it was keeping his mind _off_ Hannibal. Many nights he latched onto him with his teeth, unable to let go until one or two in the morning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some of your support really do be making me cry. I love you guys.


	11. Eleven

**String Quartet No. 8 in C Minor Mvt. II (Shostakovich)**

Vincent woke up at 4:15 a few days before Valentine’s Day to his phone screaming on the bed stand. He squinted his burning and heavy eyes to the bright screen showing the default “alarm” message that explained nothing.

With the repeated click of the power button he silenced it, but even after rolling over to the other side of the bed he wasn’t sure if he could go back to sleep. A minute later he turned back over and checked the security system he had around his house, which he had connected to an app, for some extra comfort. There were no disturbances and the app told him everything was perfectly alright. Last activity sensed was a squirrel crawling along the roof of the house.

Vincent finally laid back down with no real answers and no real questions. He didn’t remember setting any alarm like this. Even if he had set the wrong time by accident, why would he need an alarm at 4:15 p.m.? Maybe he had one for the a.m. that he never got around to deleting and pushed it by accident. He forced his logic to relax in the comforting ambiguity between one of those two answers, since they were the only explanations he had. And the more his mind worked, the more he wished it didn’t. It took two pills to put himself to sleep again.

**Sonata for Violin and Piano in A Major I, III, IV (Franck)**

When Alana was busy, Will usually spent his weekends in bed. Winston was sleeping across his leg and Harley was curled up on his other side. Will had laid his book down on his stomach a long time ago with little motivation to do anything besides listen to the music playing on his laptop. He wasn’t in the right mood to read, but rather to think. He moved from one thought to the next, eroding each down to their bare bone in moments, like a piranha, and then discarding it for another.

The phone resting against his leg buzzed and he picked it up. There on the lock screen was a notification from Dr. Maurier. ‘How are you this afternoon?’

It had been a day since their call on the 14th, nearly three weeks total since Hannibal had kneaded all of Will’s hesitation to reply out of him. ‘pretty good. just reading, or trying to.’ Will answered.

‘Too relaxed?’

‘the opposite, my brain is too sharp. i feel like all my senses are too heightened to sit still, if that makes sense.’

‘Perhaps your senses are normally asleep.’

‘im thinking about asking my dad if we can go hunting later.’

Only in an unusually long pause between responses did Will scroll leisurely through their messages and reread some of the timestamps. It’d been two hours since they began their conversation and hadn't stopped since. (At one point Will asked if he was distracting Hannibal from anything important. Hannibal said no, he was just unwinding with some sketching, the PG-rated type. Will asked for a picture.) Two hours and pages and pages of exchanges later, and time had slipped away right through the cracks of Will’s supposedly heightened awareness.

‘do you hunt?’ Will asked.

‘Not recently. I did learn how, for a while, but now I believe I’m more proficient with a handgun.’

‘never tried that but I’ve always been curious.’

‘We’ll trade: if you teach me to hunt, I’ll teach you to shoot a handgun.’

‘deal.’

Hannibal stayed true to his half right away. Will actually had no idea how things worked in his world. It seemed he could snap his fingers and the rules of logic and physics would bend to his will. Suddenly Vincent was happily announcing that they were going hunting that Monday, since Will was off on President’s Day, and Hannibal would be “tagging along.” Apparently he had a lifetime license for small game but hadn’t hunted in a while. Will didn’t know how true that was, but either way, things were in motion and Will knew he was bound to be swept along with the current.

Vincent rarely woke up before Will on the weekends, but on that day he was already sitting at the table digging into an omelet when Will came downstairs.

That afternoon they drove to where they had arranged to meet up and got there first. Stepping out of the car and onto the small, cold road flanked between two armies of trees, Will knew it was a good day for hunting. Though the sky was overcast and cast a dim blue-grey light on the world, there was something so right about it. A taste of dead wood, iron, and clouds unwilling to rain hung in the air and Will assimilated, coated in his environment like a disguise. He could close his eyes and still feel rather than see the world around him.

Whenever Hannibal was near, the wind sounded different and the sky changed its shade. So while Will was kneeling on the gravel triple-checking their bags for everything, and Vincent was unloading their guns from the trunk, he sensed this change and looked over his shoulder to see Hannibal’s car rolling up just like he expected. And Will really did see it that way: rolling up. The way it sunk low to the ground and crawled toward them, half apprehensively and half curiously, gave Will the idea he should be pointing his rifle at it.

Was this what Hannibal’s victims felt like right before he’d murdered them? he asked himself, and for a moment he was sick.

The car stopped and Hannibal stepped out, looking unusually casual. Vincent called him over and greeted him, but Hannibal still met Will’s eyes first. Neither one had to smile or nod. The sight of him was enough to press a desire into Will he couldn’t name or comprehend the size of. It overwhelmed him and suddenly there was no room for guilt, just craving. The two were increasingly transferable lately.

Distant conversation bounced in the back of Will’s mind while Hannibal greeted Vincent and Will turned back to the bag. Everything seemed to be there—water, flashlight, survival blanket, rangefinders. When he looked over at the pair again and saw Hannibal unloading his own rifle out of the trunk, out of the blue, a storm seared through him. The greetings between Vincent and Hannibal came to their natural end and in the silence Will called, “I thought you just lived in tweed.”

Will saw out of the corner of his eye Vincent turning around with his mouth open ready to chide him, but Hannibal replied before he could: “And the few instances I've seen you you've worn flannel every time.”

Will chuckled to himself. He averted his eyes back to his work. “That's fair.”

Hannibal slung his rifle over his shoulder and walked to him, head cocked to see what Will’s hands were busy with. “I’m surprised you didn’t bring your dogs.” Then he knelt down beside him. The proximity of their bodies set Will’s teeth on edge.

“They’re not hunting dogs,” Will replied. “If Winston saw a bird he’d just bark at it.”

“Ah.”

He zipped up the backpack. “Nice rifle.”

“Thank you.” Hannibal reached back and set a hand on its body. “When you’re still somewhat new to this game I think it’s better to begin with something.. medium-sized.”

“That's the way to start.” Will looked toward him. “As long as it shoots, right?”

Hannibal returned his smile. “Exactly.”

“Did you remember the rangefinders?” Vincent called over, breaking their discussion.

They glanced back. “Yeah,” Will said.

“Good.”

Vincent led them down the road a little and into the brush until they lost sight of the last, feeble reminder of human civilization. It didn’t take much for them to disappear from it. There he set Hannibal up in front of a tree and gave him some pointers on how to hold the gun, putting a hand on his shoulder to adjust his stance as needed, while Hannibal aimed at a knot on a bare dogwood. Hannibal shot a round, Vincent gave him some more tips, repeat.

Will stood beside them leaning against a trunk, rifle unloaded and pointed to the ground as his earlier metaphor of an anthropologist came to mind. He rarely observed his father interacting with friends aside from Ms. Bloom and occasionally Uncle Jack, even though he knew he had more of them at work. So it was a brand new experience to watch Vincent chuckle, quip a joke, rest a hand on Hannibal’s shoulder like any man would with his hunting buddies. His femininity melted away with the road and in the sanctuary of nature he was a completely different person.

The clothes had a lot to do with it. Every time Will had seen Hannibal before, he’d been wearing a suit (usually testing the line between European flamboyance and a bad taste in fashion) but now his clothes included a turtleneck and muted colors; greens, browns, and blacks. That morning after New Years was similar, but Will had had more important things to focus on that night.  
Seeing his dad being a typical man with his friend was surreal, but seeing Hannibal being treated like a typical male friend was much more so. Hannibal wasn’t something Will could anchor to the earth in sports and hunting and constructed masculinity.

Throughout all this, Hannibal went from scraping the edge of the tree to plunging bullet after bullet into the knot and Will remained leaning complacently against the tree, mind consumed with psychoanalysis mingled with obsession.

“Damn,” Vincent mused, hands on his hips. “You’re a natural.”

“Thank you.” Hannibal lowered the gun to his side.

“I think we can go ahead and start, then.” Vincent looked to his son. “Any direction you want to go?”

“We should walk that way,” Will said, nodding back behind them and to his north. “The animals around here have already heard us.”

“Sounds good to me.”

As Will stood up straight and began to turn, he caught Hannibal’s eyes, where Hannibal slyly flashed his true personality lying underneath today’s skin. Yes, he was lying, Will confirmed to himself. He was a liquid and a mime, and people saw what they wanted to in him. Will almost laughed as he glanced away and took his spotlight eyes off Hannibal’s cavern of a heart.

There was little talking between the three as they walked, and the snow shelves on the branches and the sea hugging their legs took up all of the visual space. Trees in this area grew close together and crowded the horizon for miles and miles, leaving little room for anything else. It could be a bit claustrophobic, but the air was so fresh it weaved in and out of the mazes of trees, releasing any pressure in between. They headed in the direction of the best ground to hunt squirrels and maybe some rabbits.

Will was far too far away, weaving with the air through the trees, to have engaged in any dialogue if he wanted to. He’d probably tell Hannibal all about it later, he decided, if he could follow the breadcrumbs back to this intangible feeling.

Without warning, Vincent stopped, laid a hand on Hannibal’s shoulder and pointed out an adult squirrel paused midway up a tree. Its little beady eyes focused on something above it and its nose twitched in skittish interest. Vincent lifted his rifle to his chest and, after moments of calculation, fired. The squirrel dropped to the snow. With no leaves and no birds to react, the shot rang like thunder in a vacuum.

They bagged the squirrel, Vincent received his fair share of compliments from them, and they kept moving.

It was Hannibal who suggested he and Will walk in another direction for a little while to see what they could find. Vincent accepted this, since they all had their cellphones.

They set off on their own, walking side-by-side. Hannibal was but a shadow out of Will’s peripheral because of their height difference. Will barely reached his shoulder.

“How are you feeling?” Hannibal asked.

“Self-aware,” Will answered, without missing a beat.

“This seems to be an increasingly familiar state.”

Just like Will had suspected two weeks ago, Hannibal was near silent when he wanted to be. His footsteps barely made a sound, even with the snow. It only began as soon as they were talking so he must have been dumbing it down (or up) for Vincent. Hannibal’s efforts to fool Vincent into believing he was a normal person never ceased to amuse Will. Now it would at least be helpful when they were hunting, especially squirrels and other such small game.

Will was explaining this. “They’re very skittish,” he said, “so they'll run if they hear any footsteps, branches snapping, talking. So basically everything I’m doing right now. Not to mention their natural instinct, which nothing we do can control.”

“How does one fool natural instinct?”

“You can go downwind, and some people spray the bottoms of their soles with scent-blocker. Sometimes we do that. But most of the time it’s about fighting fire with fire. When you hunt you have to turn on your natural instinct and become a predator yourself.” He paused and smiled. “So you’ll be good at this.”

“You descend down to their level and see them eye-to-eye,” Hannibal thought aloud. “From your father’s change in personality, he clearly sees hunting as emphasizing our superiority. Perhaps in an attempt to kill the weaker parts of himself.”

After hearing Hannibal say those words ‘change in personality’, a sigh escaped Will’s lungs and his shoulders relaxed in the process. “I’m glad that’s not just me seeing that,” he said.

“It seems he’s getting in touch with his masculine side. He’s certainly asserting his dominance over you in an effort to appeal to me.”

“And yielding dominance back to you.”

“And I yield back to you.”

Will chuckled. A bluebird fluttered onto a branch to their right and they glanced there only to judge it as far too small to catch. Will continued, “He’s been sort of ignoring me to the point where I wonder if he’s mad at me, but I know he’s not. That’s just sort of how he functions around you.”

“I don’t think that’s the case, but I’ve been counting and in the past two hours or so he’s spoken to you exactly once.”

Will pursed his lips and looked down. “I... hadn’t realized that.”

“Why don’t you fight for your space?” Hannibal asked.

“Against him?” Will laughed a little.

“He’s not the alpha of our hunting party, I am. If you assert dominance over me, I’ll submit, and thus you become the alpha. You did this subconsciously when you first saw me, by commenting on my clothing.”

Will smiled wryly, kicking the snow up a little with his boot. “I didn’t even realize that,” he said. “I don’t have a desire to be dominant over him over anything. At least not consciously. I actually kind of like this grounded side of him. It feels safer. He’s more in touch with reality, holding a gun, holding a dead animal—he’s in control of the physical space around him so he’s able to get a hold on himself.”

“You would make a fantastic psychiatrist,” Hannibal suggested.

“How dare you call me a psychiatrist?”

He chuckled humbly, head bowed, and Will was suddenly very aware that Hannibal was hanging onto his every word, just as Will hung off of his. Will wondered if Hannibal enjoyed it even half as much as he did. If that was even possible.

“I thought…” Will began, gesturing with the gun, “usually when I do this I feel like I’m holding the gun as much as I feel that the gun is being pointed at me. I took Alana a few times but she said it only made her depressed, for the same reason. It doesn't do that for me.”

“Naturally you put yourself in the mind of your prey,” Hannibal replied. “Your empathy won’t allow anything else. There's no need to feel guilty if you're only pointing the gun at yourself.”

“Right. But this time it’s different. I still feel myself inside them, but there's no question of who’s who. I know who I am.” Will had to look straight up to see him. “What about you? How does hunting make you feel?”

“A unique, sadistic kind of masochism.” There was even a disturbing sparkle in Hannibal’s eyes as he surveyed the environment around him.

Will regretted the question immediately. Yet again he couldn’t escape from the reality: he was walking, talking, carrying on a relationship—despite its ambiguous nature—with a serial killer. Will’s higher self deplored it, reminding him of the pain Luke suffered and what that would be like if he’d extended it to a dozen more people or even more. God knew how far it reached. Will was about to voice these concerns, somehow, when Hannibal turned his eyes back to him and Will’s anger melted away.

He was beginning to understand what Hannibal had meant by the tide compelled to bend to the moon. The imprint Hannibal had on his mind didn’t resemble anyone else’s, and Will couldn’t get enough of it; his voice, his silhouette, down to the way he walked. He wanted all of it. Will’s empty expression gave away every bit of his vulnerability, and the floor that Hannibal pulled out from under him.

“We should focus on the task at hand, so the prey won’t hear us,” Hannibal said, turning his attention forward. “With any luck I’ll get to see you kill with my own eyes.”

It all clicked in time with Will’s last step crunching through the snow when he stopped abruptly in his tracks. “Is that what’s missing?” he asked, turning and facing Hannibal. “You saw the aftermath and you felt the intensity of that—that moment I experienced, but you never saw it happen. You felt shut out. That's why you wanted to know how I felt during that moment. Not because you wanted me to admit that I enjoyed it, but because you wanted me to relive it with you.”

“Not necessarily to participate,” Hannibal answered with a humble dip in his tone, “but I would've liked to stand from a distance and witness the whole scene.”

“You’re a voyeur.”

A smile taking on a bashful nature Will had never seen before spread on Hannibal’s lips. “I’m sorry,” he said, “I mistook you for your father’s psychiatrist earlier, but you should be mine.”

Will kept his gun pointed at the ground and stepped back, leaning against a black birch. He had to have a full view of Hannibal so he knew just where to cut. Hannibal had already demarcated all the lines for him. “It actually fits,” he observed, nodding. “It's a dignified position to stand from the side, and it preserves your isolation, but gives you a sense of, of pseudo-intimacy. Illusion of intimacy—that's what you told me. Just like how your psychiatry makes you feel connected from an arm’s distance.”

Hannibal was passive, holding still for Will to do what he needed. “Are you analyzing me or degrading me?” he asked.

Will grinned. “Who says I’m degrading you?”

“You’re stepping into the role of the taunter, or the torturer. Not that it's unpleasant.”

Hannibal took a step closer to him, body angled forward, clearly displaying his intention to back him up against the tree. But something seized in Will. He snapped the rifle up from his side and pressed the nose into Hannibal’s chest. Hannibal stopped immediately. 

Will stared him in the eyes, head angled down and pointed as if he was looking down the barrel. “Safety’s on,” he said. His words were assuring but his tone was devoid of emotion. It didn't matter, anyway. He was already breaking every gun safety rule in the book.

“Turn it off,” Hannibal whispered.

Will flipped it with a flick of his thumb. Hannibal took in a staggering breath, and Will felt the shake reverberating down the gun.

“Get on your knees,” he demanded.

Hannibal sunk to the ground and set his gun gently down in the snow beside him. While he lowered himself to his knees he maintained constant eye contact with Will, who had his finger resting comfortably on the trigger. Hannibal’s eyes were begging; for mercy or for more, Will couldn’t tell, but he didn’t feel like giving him either. Instead he wanted to hold him at bay, at the brink of both orgasm and death for as long as Hannibal’s raw desperation excited him.

It was just, after all. Hannibal deserved every bit of degradation and torture Will wanted to give to him. He looked at Hannibal’s beautifully formed hands, strong and feminine at once, even under his gloves. He’d killed with them. He’d washed blood off them, and used them to take his victims’ lives and then get off to it later. So Will didn’t have to be sorry for any pain he caused him, and with this realization his guilt slithered away once and for all. All that was left was his appetite to hurt Hannibal in any way he could. Just as strong as was his desire to fuck him.

Will’s finger rested on the trigger, pressing it down slightly. Hannibal stirred, but not in fear. He wanted it. His pupils were blown wide. He was hard in his pants. Everything hung on a cliff waiting for the slight clench of Will’s finger that would bring nature to its knees.

A shot from miles away rang through the air and Will visibly jumped. Instinct saved him and jerked his finger off the trigger just half a moment before his muscles would have tensed and pulled it back.

As the gunshot faded away, and the magnitude of what had just almost happened set in. He saw understanding dawning on Hannibal’s face at the same time.

“Fuck,” Will whispered, and pointed the gun away. He started to shake, stomach turning with horror. “Fuck, I’m so sorry—”

But Hannibal was in front of him in the blink of an eye and crushing his lips to Will’s. He pressed him up against the tree and the gun landed in the snow. One hand cupped the back of Will’s neck, the other pushed underneath his coat, itching for more. It weaved around his slim sides, feeling the petite shape of his body, pressing down to his hips, and gripping the sides of his thighs to force his legs apart for Hannibal to move inside. Will tried to twist and knot themselves together, wrapping his legs around Hannibal’s hips and his arms around his neck.

An erection so hard it could be a weapon grinded against Will’s stomach and then against his crotch when Hannibal lifted him up by his hips like he weighed nothing. When their faces were level, Hannibal invaded his mouth.

“Please,” Will begged, in the quick chance he had. Hannibal ducked his head and instead of kissing, licked a thick stripe up his neck, ending at his ear. Will was clenching his body against him with his legs, cock hardening in his jeans as they constructed a frequent grinding rhythm. He couldn’t stop himself from thrusting helplessly into it, as his head fell back against the bark and his eyes closed in surrender. “Please, fuck me,” he breathed.

“I can’t. Not yet.” Hannibal’s usually icy voice was now frantic. He used the strength of his body to hold Will against the tree and shoved one hand in between them.

He tried to steady his hands enough to undo Will’s pants and belt without being able to see his work. He was no sooner pushing his hand under his underwear that Will transmitted to him his intentions through one press of his hand against Hannibal’s broad chest, while his tongue was still occupied tasting the inside of his mouth. Even under the hot pressure Hannibal obeyed and let him down. Will dropped to his knees, tore open Hannibal’s pants, and took his cock in his mouth.

Hannibal buckled at the waist, leaning against the tree and choking a moan back down to an appropriate volume. Will gripped his shaft and pulled the foreskin down from the head so he could pinch his lips around it and suck, tonguing the frenulum. Above him, Hannibal sounded like he was having a heart attack with the way he was panting.

The satisfaction flowing steadily into Will was also unfailingly dissatisfying, driving him to take Hannibal deeper and deeper as if anything would be fulfilling enough. A shocking load of precum soon coated Will’s tongue and smeared against the top of his mouth, but he pulled off, prompting a frustrated groan from Hannibal.

Will tried to get up but Hannibal was faster. He dropped to the ground beside him, gripped Will by the front of his sweater, and pushed him onto his back. He attacked his mouth and his neck while Will grasped at his clothes, shaking like the earth was shifting from beneath him, but not for long before Hannibal slid farther down his body. In one motion he devoured the boy’s cock from tip to base like it was the last thing he would ever taste.

Will lay there on his back in the snow, flat enough that he could only see the top of Hannibal’s hair if he strained his neck down. Above him, the bare branches weaved and crossed each other in a craggy spiderweb. Hannibal’s hands roamed under his sweater. His tongue moved expertly up and down his shaft while Will’s body melted into the earth. Half was brimming with pleasure. The other half, numb, transcended beyond his sense of morality and dignity.

Eventually they walked back to where they had left Vincent. They never talked about where exactly they would meet back up; they simply headed back the way they came. Will, with years of experience under his belt, was relying on his intuitive direction to guide him where he was supposed to go. And if not, he would fall back on Hannibal and the fact that he hadn’t corrected him yet, so it was safe to assume they were going the right way or would eventually turn the right way at the right time.

In fact, Will had never seen the forest this way before, similarly to how a dream-state made familiar things seem distorted in a way the dreamer couldn’t identify. The color of the snow was paler somehow. The tree branches were streaked with more white and brown stripes than they had been before. An invisible fog coated everything and they were the only ones with permission to step through it. He might have been walking through the afterlife without realizing Hannibal had killed him back there.

Will stopped. He looked to the side and saw, through the trees in a clearing, a black stag walking in their opposite direction.

It moved in no real hurry, fur falling in slow motion around its powerful figure. No sound reached them but the stag’s hooves crunching quietly in the snow, a small detail but one that made it stunningly present in their reality. Then it stopped and turned its head in Will’s direction.

Hannibal kept his hand on his rifle, ready to act at any command, but he was blurred in this picture. It was only Will and the stag in the world, staring at each other across the woods. The stag looked into Will’s eyes and into his soul, and Will couldn’t even see his own reflection in that darkness.

“I can’t,” Will whispered, to answer a question that didn’t need to be asked. “My caliber is too small.”

Hannibal lowered his gun. The stag continued to watch them as if it could understand what they were saying.

“I wouldn’t be able to kill it,” Will continued. “If anything I’d just.. make it suffer.”

It was clear to the stag that they weren't a threat yet. It ducked its head, turned forward and kept on walking, body moving hypnotically through time and space.

When they met up with Vincent he had proudly bagged two squirrels—the one Will and Hannibal had witnessed and one from the shot they heard earlier.

They kept on walking.

It wasn’t long until they stumbled upon a rabbit with fur white enough that it blended perfectly into its background, but Will still noticed it. He stopped and pointed his rifle at it. In a moment it collapsed.

Vincent congratulated him and left to collect the body. Will lowered his rifle and said nothing back. His eyes stayed glued on that rabbit, on the red spreading over its white fur and its dark, beady eyes, unable to ever understand what had just happened and yet more aware of it than Will could ever be.

“I do feel a bit like a dog dragging in a dead bird to its master,” Will muttered cynically, to Hannibal who was standing next to him.

“Good boy.”

**Près des remparts de Séville (from Carmen, Bizet)**

They drove back to Hannibal’s house at his offer to cook their spoils for them, out of appreciation for taking him on the adventure. He and Will didn’t speak to each other hardly at all but they revolved around each other on a constantly shifting axis. Wherever they moved they remained in each other’s gravity, from across the room or on the other side of a door. Vincent may have even caught wind of it. From the moment they entered the house he was a moon, always heeling to Hannibal’s side.

A melody trilled in the background while Hannibal convinced him that it was alright if Will helped in chopping up some of the vegetables. Vincent was talking about this or that as he dressed their animals; Will tuned it out as white noise so he didn’t get overwhelmed. He’d insisted to Hannibal that the music was alright as long as it was turned down low, and he was doing alright thus far.

Hannibal had an apron tied around his waist and his sweater pushed up to his strong forearms, and Will couldn’t stop glancing at the way Hannibal pressed the meat down into the transparent cutting board. He hoped it wasn’t terribly obvious to anyone but Hannibal that he’d rather be pressed onto that table instead.

When there was a silence between them and a new song came on, Will heard him humming along in French.

_“Pres des remparts de Seville, chez mon ami, Lillas Pastia, j'irai danser la Seguedille, et boire du Manzanilla.”_

“Showoff,” Will whispered.

Hannibal chuckled under his breath.

Eventually, Vincent excused himself from the room. The door clicked shut and left them in deafening loneliness. The music glided along the tile and in the glitter of every shiny object in the kitchen.

“How many times has he spoken to me since we got here?” Will asked. They were side-by-side at that point but they didn’t look at each other.

“Twice,” Hannibal answered. “I think you’re becoming spoiled.”

Will chuckled stiffly, along with twenty different emotions clashing uncomfortably in his throat.

Hannibal leaned to the side, his head next to Will’s, and circled his tongue around Will’s earlobe and sucked on the tip. Air abandoned Will’s lungs and his knees buckled.

He grazed his lips against Will’s ear and whispered, “You own me.”

“I know.”


	12. Twelve

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Is this chapter on time? No.
> 
> But is it because I was working really hard on it for a long time and not because I was procrastinating? Also no.

**String Quartet No. 8 in C Minor Mvt. III (Shostakovich)**

The next Tuesday, Vincent woke up a throbbing in his lip he thought was a sore of some kind. It was only when he made it, stumbling, to his bathroom and turned on the blinding light that he saw he had, in fact, a cut through the left of his bottom lip. Confused, Vincent narrowed his red eyes and leaned in to see. A little blood was dried around the right side of his mouth.

He couldn’t figure out what this could possibly mean, but if he took a step back and looked at this as a purely isolated incident, it didn’t seem that abnormal. Some things just couldn’t be explained.

He put some ice cubes in a paper towel and held it to the inside of his mouth, then splashed himself with a little cold water to wake himself up out of the grave. Maybe his lips were more chapped than he remembered. Maybe there really was a thorn or a needle in his bed that had ripped his lip open while he slept. The possibilities seemed endless when Vincent didn’t take the time to name them all.

**Symphony No. 40 in G Minor (Mozart)**

One night in late February, Will was up in his room with the window open. It was too early in the year for many mosquitos and the night air was still clean, wintry like mint, and free of pollen. At seven o’clock, dusk had slithered away and left Will with just the white light from his ceiling fan to ward away the dim blue. The night breeze rolled in and lulled Winston to sleep on the comforter. It all proved the perfect environment to facilitate a few straight hours of mental gymnastics.

Earlier that week he had discovered a site called Chess Connect, where users could play against each other in games of chess or against the computer and earn points. He and Hannibal (Doc_Lec) made accounts and played game after game most evenings, but Will had yet to win a single match. The best feature on the site was that all messages in the chat room were deleted upon exiting the browser. Will systematically deleted all conversations between him and Hannibal before he went to bed anyway, but chatting on Connect was, in that way, more convenient for them both. Their texts still remained on the safe side. Their phone calls were another animal.

Just a few nights prior, Hannibal had handed him more control of the reigns as Will was ready to accept it.

It was late and they were talking quietly, so Will could hear every rustle and every breath until he lost track of which belonged to whom. The hum of the fan in Hannibal’s room was almost uncomfortably intimate. Will didn’t usually think of him as needing any of those human devices, and having to acknowledge that was a form of exposure. Like seeing the raw, almost fearful look in his eyes when he made him come on that hunting trip.

Their discussion became heated and Will was lying on his stomach, horizontal across his bed, when he stopped mid-sentence. Sheets were rustling behind his voice and the rhythm was too familiar.

“Are you jerking off?” he whispered.

There was no pause in the rustling when Hannibal answered, “Yes.”

It was so dark that night, with a new moon, that staring down at his bed was as effective as looking at the backs of his eyelids to conjure the image in his mind. Another one of his many fantasies was just to be a complete bystander and watch Hannibal masturbate. The shift of clothing slowed, the sound that had reached its fingers out of the phone to trick Will’s mind into believing they were in the same room. In reality, there were nothing but shadows running their lips over Will's ear.

“Talk to me.”

Will knew what he was asking. “I want to suck you off,” he whispered.

“Say it properly.”

He took a preparatory breath in as quietly as he could, tucking his nerves underneath the mattress for now. “I want to suck your cock.”

Hannibal released a grateful exhale. “Yes, Will.”

“I want to blow you so well you come in my mouth. Just the head, though. I’ll keep it between my lips and drive you fucking crazy.” Will’s mouth cracked in a smile. “I know you like it when I do that.”

“Oh. Fuck.” The rustling hastened.

“I don't know if—” He squeezed his eyes shut when his mouth stuttered without his permission. “I mean, eventually, I want to be able to deepthroat you.”

“Yes…”

“So you can just thrust in me, as far as you want.” Will ran his fingers back through his hair and his scalp crawled. “I want you grabbing my hair and holding me still so you can use me,” he sighed.

“Would you lie on your back, head facing me so I could thrust into your mouth?”

“Yeah. Just fuck my throat.”

“Oh, God. I want that.” Hannibal’s pitch was climbing and his composure was waning. Will tore the threads out one by one and left him tattered. “I wouldn't come down your throat. No, my boy, I would pull out. Explode on your chest, all over your face. I’ll hold you down and soak you with my cum.”

“Yeah.” Will muttered. “Mark me.”

Hannibal groaned. Deep, guttural. “Yes.” Now his voice was tightening and Will got to witness that rare moment he itched for when Hannibal’s voice went so high it broke, startlingly feminine. Will was hot all over.

“You're my boy.” It wasn’t a question, it was a statement.

“I'm your boy,” Will whispered.

“Oh, G—od—”

That was a few days ago. Will was now counting down the days until they could see each other in person again, during spring break in two weeks. Vincent had let Will know that all three of them could go to the lake house, and Will was thinking about how the morning sun would hit him when he saw Hannibal’s heavy eyes after just waking up.

Somewhere in the middle of their chess game that night, Will messaged, ‘I saw a feature where you can choose to play without some pieces, so let’s tip the scales a little next round.’

‘I’m intrigued.’ Hannibal replied.

They were about evenly divided when Will suggested that, and shortly after, Hannibal emerged with his strategy of the game. He shifted in and out of personalities in the ways he broke Will down. This time it was a long, patient process of chipping away at his defenses until the board was all white. Checkmate.

Will messaged: ‘Good job. I’m going to get some food then I’ll be back.’ He leaned away, then paused, came back and added another line. ‘And yes, I’m eating after dinner. Don’t judge me. I’m a young, growing boy and I need sustenance.’

‘Get your sustenance. Perhaps it will help you win.’

‘Shush’ Will rapped the enter button then pushed off of his bed.

Walking down the creaking wooden stairs, his mind jumped excitedly through all the options open to him. He could probably talk Hannibal into anything—maybe he could tell him to give up his queen and pawns. That still left him quite a few pieces at his disposal, and definitely swung the game in Will’s favor, but he worried that would be too unfair. Perhaps, then, starting with every piece except pawns. Then later the queen. Hannibal would have to find a new strategy, but it wasn’t about crippling him badly enough to win. It was more about crippling him and seeing how he’d react.

Will entered the living room and saw his father sitting at the dining table with his computer. The screen reflected brightly off his glasses so that Will could hardly see his eyes, but judging by his rigid posture he was staring intensely. His hair was messed up and going all sorts of directions.

Feeling resentment creeping its way back into his suspension of reality, Will tried to redirect his focus and keep his inspiration from fizzling.

He went to the kitchen without a word to his dad—who hadn’t noticed his entrance—and opened the cupboard to see no bowls stacked there. The dishwasher, on the other hand, was full, and all the plates looked clean but it was notoriously hard to tell sometimes.

“Dad?” he asked. He looked back at Vincent, whose eyes hadn’t moved from the screen.

“Dad?” he tried again.

“Mm?”

“Is the dishwasher clean?”

No response. Will watched him and it was as if he never spoke. Vincent was still completely consumed by whatever he was staring at.

“Dad.”

Vincent sighed and finally turned to Will. When he took off his glasses, his eyes were red around the rims and eyebags hung underneath. “What?” he pressed.

Will shook his head and turned away. “Nevermind,” he said. “Sorry.” He took a bowl out of the dishwasher and began to wash, it just to be safe.

“What do you need? I’m sorry, I’m just a little—” Vincent rubbed his eyes with the heels of his palms. “I’m very busy right now.”

“What else is new,” Will muttered.

He regretted it as soon as it left his mouth, because he knew he wasn’t quiet or subtle enough for Vincent not to hear that. Will didn’t have to look up. He felt the mutual irritation pulsing between them, just waiting to be verbalized. While he dried and poured some chips in his bowl, he tried to act as normal as he could, but there was no taking it back.

“I know you’re frustrated with everything,” Vincent began stiffly, “and I’m sorry if I made it that way, but Jesus, I wish you would stop acting like such an angsty teen.”

At those words, something in Will snapped. He turned to his father and exclaimed, tripping over his anger: “I’m—you—I’m not—I’m not acting like an angsty teen! You treat me like a child who can—who doesn’t know anything, who can’t survive without you and then you’re not even interested in really talking to me!”

“Not interested in talking to you?!” Vincent exclaimed. He slammed his hand on the table, rattling his glass on the wood, and glared at his son. Will jumped at the sound, eyes wide. “You’re the only person in my life! What else do I have in life besides my job and you? Tell me!”

He paused, staring in disbelief. Will’s heart beat against his ribcage with all its might.

“Jesus, Will, I do so much for you,” Vincent snapped. “Not only am I a single parent taking care of all the bills and the food and everything else in your life but I constantly worry about you and ask all the time if you’re okay, and all you do is say ‘I’m fine,’ ‘I’m okay,’ and I don’t want to badger you so I leave it alone! Would you rather I nag you?! Would you rather I—I give you every second of my attention?! Because I know you and I don’t think you do. I care about you so much and all you do is act like I’m your enemy, and goddammit I’m tired of it. I’m tired of your selfishness, I’m tired of always apologizing, and I am _so_ goddamn tired of letting you do nothing but sit around and read. That’s why you’re acting like this, because you have no friends and therefore nothing to focus on except yourself, so that’s all you ever think about. Maybe if you branched out a little you wouldn’t be so, so… so—fuck.”

Vincent exhaled out violently and turned back to his computer, rubbing his eyes again.

Will stood still, hands clenching the counter. His reflection in the microwave door was shaking and its lips were sealed shut. He glared down at the counter hard enough to make it melt, theoretically, but this wasn’t Hannibal. In this world he was powerless outside of himself.

Vincent started up, boiling gradually again, “It’s because of the social, isn’t it? I won’t let you go to one event and suddenly I’m a tyrant. All I’m doing is trying to protect you—that’s all I’ve ever done. That’s all I’ve ever cared about. And you either throw it back in my face or you ignore it. You never thank me and you just say it’s not enough. It’s not enough.”

“If you really cared so much about protecting me you wouldn’t be leaving in the middle of the night,” Will muttered. “I don’t see how that’s protecting me at all.” He snatched the bowl off the counter and started up quickly to his room as fast as he could, not turning to look at his dad’s expression. When he got to his room he shut the door without slamming it, but he must have made his emotions physical. Winston perked up his head at him.

Will sat on the edge of his bed and immediately typed into the chat: ‘I’m back. I have a challenge for you.’

Hannibal’s reply came a few seconds later: ‘Wonderful. Tell me what I should do.’

‘Delete your pawns.’

‘Of course.’

Will had to think of what it would be like to do this in person. Give him a command and watch him obey it immediately.

A request from Hannibal to start a new game appeared in his notifications and Will accepted. It took him to a new screen where Will was white facing Hannibal’s black pieces, looking jawless with its entire row of pawns missing. It was at this point Will took a deep breath to calm his adrenaline. He locked the mental door behind him, then threw his mind into the game at hand in an aggressive but not short-sighted attack taking full advantage of Hannibal’s disadvantage.

He knew very well this wouldn’t be enough to throw the game in his favor. But, unlike his mentality when they first began playing, he wasn’t doing this for the victory. He tried his best every match, of course—that’s what made it interesting—but he was more excited to see just how Hannibal would win. As if Hannibal was a toy for his amusement; press a button and watch him dance. Or if Hannibal was a door into a lucid dream.

For the first few minutes of the game, everything was very much in Will’s favor. The odds started to turn, however, as Hannibal had captured both of Will’s knights and Will was more often being forced to abandon his plans to save valuable pieces.

For a reason that didn’t completely register, Will typed in the chat: ‘I just told my dad I know about him sneaking out at night’.

Though he regretted it, and chided himself silently for bringing it up, there was no going back now. So he went on: ‘I was downstairs getting food and I said something snarky about him working too much. Then he was yelling about how I’m an angsty teen and that I only focus on myself because I have no friends, and that all he ever wants is to protect me. So I said that if he really wanted to protect me then he wouldn’t leave in the middle of the night like he does sometimes. Not so often anymore, but still.’ ‘I left before he could say anything.’

‘What do you think he’s going to say eventually, when you do talk to him?’ Hannibal moved another piece.

‘That I was being immature and I need to be more grateful for what I do have. That if I really didn’t like him leaving I should’ve spoken up about it instead of just throwing it in his face without giving him time to explain himself.’

‘Are those things he has said in the past or are they your own words to yourself?’

Will sighed, making a move that would take Hannibal’s bishop. In response, Hannibal took a rook, and even though that was Will’s last rook and he would’ve been able to avoid that during any other game, he was glad Hannibal wasn’t going easy on him even when he was clearly vulnerable. ‘A combination of both’ he replied. Guilt followed suit, and Will haphazardly crafted another message: ‘The thing is, he’s not wrong. He does try to protect me at every opportunity but I don’t want the protection. Then again, I went to that party out of rebellion and after what happened with that, I can see his point.’

Hannibal’s reply was simple as Will moved another piece: ‘Don’t write your emotions off as invalid.’

Staring at the keyboard, Will’s eyes began to sting with unwelcome tears and he wiped them away before any of them got too far. He went to type in a thanks into the chat when he saw the three dots showing Hannibal was already responding and he held off.

‘Even if you were in the wrong you shouldn’t be ashamed for how you feel. Whether or not you may be logically in the right, your feelings carry weight. And perhaps you would appreciate his attempts to shield you from harm if you felt a deeper connection with him.’

‘He tries to “connect” with me and I don’t respond.’

‘Why not?’

‘His connecting is small talk. It doesn’t really feel caring, it's just polite. It’s like he’s too afraid to touch on anything deep or he treats me like I’m much younger than I am.’ They had put their game on pause for the time being, and a part of Will wanted the distraction, but it was Hannibal’s turn so the decision was his. In the meantime he sighed out some of his tension and turned onto his side, with his head on his pillow. It was getting colder outside and he had to pull his sweater around him a little tighter.

‘Yet you feel degraded at the same time by his inability to address you as an equal.’ Hannibal replied.

‘Sure, but still. he does try.’

‘Whose side are you on, exactly?’

‘I find it hard to believe that he’s completely in the wrong and I’m completely in the right. I don’t think that’s ever the case in an argument.’

‘If that’s true then that means he can't be completely right, either.’

Will smiled to himself. ‘Good point.’

‘Most people have trouble getting outside of their own heads and understanding the ones who disagree with them, while you find it more difficult to get out of other peoples’ heads and empathize with yourself. That’s a fantastic gift, but it is a double-edged sword.’

‘I like other people’s heads better. They’re more comfortable.’

‘I like your head most of all.’

A laugh burst from Will so suddenly he covered his mouth and hoped that it wasn’t loud enough to ring downstairs. ‘thanks’ he typed. ‘It’s your turn btw. Sorry for all of my ranting.’

‘No need to apologize.’ Hannibal made his move.

A minute of radio silence later while they maneuvered in, out, and around each other, Hannibal said: ‘Am I wrong in thinking this influx of guilt is in part leftover from Luke?’

Will’s stomach turned and he hesitated strongly before deciding if he wanted the conversation to go in that direction. Eventually, though, he let it happen. Hannibal was a psychiatrist, after all. ‘I still have nightmares about it.’ he told him.

‘How often?’

‘Once a week. Maybe twice. I’ve been getting a new one where I'm waking up in my own bed and I’m on top of Luke’s body, straddling his lap. You could have a field day with that.’ Will exhaled a laugh to himself. A bell jingled from in the corner of Will’s view and he looked up to see Winston walking toward him. He settled down beside him, with his body against his owner’s thigh, and Will welcomed the affection with a scratch behind the ears.

‘The fact that you’re finding it difficult to have compassion for yourself is what should prove to you your humanity.’

It was midnight when Will heard his dad walking down the hall. He waited until the footsteps receded, then peeked out of his room to see the light on in Vincent’s room and the door mostly shut.

Feeling safe enough, he mustered up the bravery to leave the fortress of his room and tread down the stairs to put his plate back in the kitchen. That went without a hitch. He came back up to the bathroom across from his room and brushed his teeth, all without being seen. For a hopeful minute he thought he was going to get off free, but as he got into bed and was about to turn out the light, a few knocks sounded from his door.

Will took a shallow breath in. “Yeah?”

Vincent pushed open the door slowly, and looked in, looking exhausted. Even more exhausted than before, and he’d been crying. “Hey,” he began, quietly. “I know it’s late but can we talk for a minute?”

Will nodded and pulled his legs up so his dad could take a seat on the edge of his bed. It was also the first time Will really noticed how old he was getting. Vincent had to set a hand on the bed first to lower himself steadily onto the mattress that sagged beneath his weight. It hadn’t slipped Will’s attention that his hair had started to get thinner in the past month, either.

Will stared at the bedsheet, fidgeting the lining. But he stopped himself quickly, and forced his hands to lie still in his lap, expecting that his dad would tell him to knock it off again.

They sat in dead silence before Vincent finally bit the bullet. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I didn’t—I had no idea you knew.”

“It’s okay. I never planned on telling you.”

“How long have you known?”

Will took a second to think about how much he wanted to reveal, exactly. “I don’t know. It started happening in the beginning of this year—I don’t remember the date, exactly. Is it work or what?”

“Work.”

Will nodded to himself.

“Is there…” Vincent chuckled to himself, and his tone lightened, “anything else about me that you know that I think you don’t know?”

Will opened his mouth to answer no then took it back, pinched his eyebrows together, and stared at his dad. “I don’t know, is there anything else about you that you haven’t told me?” he asked.

Vincent looked like he was on the verge of answering, too, but he just exhaled quietly. “I didn’t mean that, just—” Will looked down and saw him awkwardly fidgeting with the lining of Will’s bedsheet, and somehow that hit him just right. The dam broke. He gave up.

“You know what,” Will muttered, shifting down in his bed, “nevermind. I don’t want to know anymore.”

“Will.” Vincent said his name with the steely tone used for setting him straight, but the attitude that normally would have had Will cowering washed right off him when he turned away.

“I’m sorry I yelled at you,” Will replied simply. “I was rude and immature and it won’t happen again.” He pulled the covers up to his chest, while Vincent waited, stunned, and thinking through what to say—or anything he could say, at this point. Nothing seemed to be right.

“I’m really tired,” Will added. “I think I’m just going to sleep, if that’s okay.”

Vincent nodded, his movements languid and eyes far away.

After what felt like far too long for Will to stand, the weight next to him lifted, and his bedroom door shut with a soft click.


	13. Thirteen

**String Quartet No. 8 in C Minor Mvt. III (Shostakovich)**

On Tuesday the 3rd, Hannibal asked Vincent out of the blue if he had time for a quick visit that evening. Vincent had been craving it for a while, equatable to an itch entrenched too deep under his skin to reach by himself—but had been too anxious to ask. He was worried something was weighing on Hannibal’s mind that’d made him reach out so suddenly—or perhaps hoping something was, if only it meant Hannibal was willing to share a piece of his mind with him.

That afternoon, Vincent texted Will: ‘Sorry this is last minute, but Dr. Lecter and I are going to have dinner tonight. I’m not sure when I’ll be home, probably after you’re asleep.’

Will replied: ‘Okay.’ A few minutes passed and he texted back: ‘Alana and some of her friends are going to the movies after school. Can I go?’

‘Which friends and what movie are you going to see?”

‘Thomas and some people we started sitting with at lunch. They’re nice.’ In a second text he answered the second question. ‘It’s rated R—Thomas’s older brother is going so we can get in, but it doesn’t sound that bad lol. They said they’d get us back before dark. Can send you more info if you want.’

Vincent sighed to himself when a pain crossed through his chest, but after some deliberation he decided he didn’t need anything else weighing on his mind when he was trying to muster a cheerful mood to present to Hannibal. ‘Sorry, Will, but it’s R-rated and I don’t know these kids...‘

Three minutes passed and Will replied: ‘Okay. I’ll be back normal time then.’

‘Sorry. I love you.’

‘Love you too.’

And with that, Vincent took the faucet of his pent-up guilt and fear and pulled it as tightly shut as he could. Hannibal hopefully didn’t see the leak dripping in his eyes when he was pouring them both wine in his kitchen. The sky had deepened its hue an hour before. Vincent snapped back to reality and smiled back at him, perhaps a little too on-command.

He wasn’t sure, even as he pulled up to the house, if he was going to talk about all the waking up and bruises and paranoia he’d been struck with in the past weeks. He knew Hannibal would always be willing to listen to him ramble, and perhaps cry a little—not that he would let himself overdo it. But after venting to him about his problems for four years and that being the focus of their relationship, he didn’t want to treat Hannibal like a free psychiatrist anymore. But, perhaps more importantly, Hannibal was a very put-together, confident, elegant, grounded man. Nobody like that would choose somebody with Vincent’s anxieties for a partner if they knew how bad they really were.

If Hannibal saw anything uneasy underneath Vincent’s mask, he didn’t say. He just handed him his glass over the marble counter, glinting under the soft white light. Vincent decided to divert their minds from the subtext. “Any reason in particular you wanted to see me tonight?” he asked, raising the glass to his lips.

“No reason,” Hannibal replied. “Only that I missed your company.” Vincent couldn’t tell if the smile he returned was disappointed or genuine.

The night started out with some light, frivolous conversation in the living room. Ten minutes in, the wine led to gentle making out and then some less gentle sex during which neither of them came. Hannibal brought Vincent to the edge several times with his mouth, aggressive and relentless like nothing Vincent had ever seen from him before. He was hungry for it tonight, like something possessed. But he still stopped short every time. Dinner followed, and in Vincent’s opinion one of the best meals Hannibal had ever served him—he told him as such.

There was a lot of finalization of their trip to the lake since it was just that next week. Hannibal confirmed he could go, and Vincent had already booked the house back in November, so they decided they would leave Tuesday afternoon and depart Saturday. Vincent needed Monday to tie up loose ends at work and to give them a breather after Sunday, when Vincent and Hannibal planned to see _Carmen_.

“And, I’m making a rule,” Vincent said, waving his finger at him over the dinner table. “For the lake house, for us.”

Hannibal was already reading his mind. “Are you going to outlaw sex?” he asked.

“Yes,” Vincent said with a dip of his head, “but more generally, sexual activity as a whole.”

Hannibal looked up from his plate at Vincent with somber, amused eyes. “Vincent,” he said gently.

“Sorry. But that’s it.” Vincent shrugged, taking another sip of wine. “I’m not risking it.”

“I doubt the success of that rule.”

“Oh,” Vincent chuckled, one eyebrow raised, “you don’t have that much control?”

“No, I don’t think you will be able to keep your hands off of me.”

Vincent snorted, glancing up without moving his head. “You flatter yourself.”

Hannibal simply smiled back at him in a way neither of them had to vocalize to understand.

It wasn’t long before they moved up to the bedroom to finish what they started. Hannibal showed no mercy. As he pulled out from behind he released his grip on the back of Vincent’s neck, and something deep in Vincent loosed that Hannibal had snapped into place when his fingers first closed over his windpipe. Vincent was in pieces when he rolled onto his stomach on the silk sheets, arms sweating and thighs too shaky to stand. Hannibal laid down next to him. He ran his fingers through Vincent’s hair and pressed a kiss to his flushed forehead that breathed life into Vincent’s body for days. Vincent closed his eyes and melted inside. Safe.

These nights were what he lived for.

**Les tringles des sistres tintaient (from Carmen, Bizet)**

Will texted Hannibal after he got home from school and was surprised when he asked to call. Hannibal explained that Will’s voice would relax him while he cooked for his dinner with Vincent that night. Not to mention he was morbidly intrigued to know Will was planning to look into Vincent’s files.

“If my voice is so calming then I think my voice talking about murder will be twice as good,” Will said, in his dad’s study pushing a chair up to the bookshelf.

“A double reward for me.”

Will chuckled as he pulled himself up to stand on the chair. He didn’t usually acknowledge Hannibal’s affinity for murder, especially not in a joking manner. He had to draw the line somewhere. Recently, though, it was becoming easier and easier to brush off if he chose not to think about it too hard.

“Does he not keep the key on him?” Hannibal asked.

“He does, but he has in a spare here too, taped to the back of a book,” Will answered. “Hold on a second, it’s high up and I don’t want to break my neck.” He laid the phone down and stretched up to the highest shelf to remove a thick novel from its place. Holding the book in his arms, he flipped to the back cover and peeled the little silver key from where it was taped. All the result of slyly peeking through a crack in the door to see how his dad was securing his files.

Once he’d set the book on the corner of the desk and stepped down he could pick his phone up again. On the other end, the sizzle of a saucepan popped and music played faintly in the ambiance. Hannibal had explained to him what he was making but Will only understood about every other word.

Meanwhile, Will fit the key into Vincent’s lowest cabinet next to his desk and pulled the drawer open. There he could see hundreds of folders organized according to case title, some thick and some barely filled. The section labeled “Chesapeake Ripper” was about to burst. At the very back, obscured by shadows, was the case to Vincent’s emergency gun.

Will closed his eyes and ran his fingers along the documents, flipping through papers and folders inside folders. He stopped when it felt right and pulled the section he’d landed on at random. Fate had chosen for him the Copycat murders. He’d looked them over before and unfortunately, it was a pretty thin file. Most of the information was in Vincent’s office at work. Will was lucky to find, when he laid the papers out on his dad’s desk, pictures of a female victim mounted on antlers in a barren field. Later they’d found another girl found the same way, that time in an antler room.

He vaguely remembered when his dad had caught Hobbes, the original killer the Copycat took his inspiration from, but he never found his secret admirer.

Hannibal interrupted his thought process. “What are you looking at?”

“Copycat murders,” Will answered. His eyes were glued on a full body shot of the first girl impaled by several points, laid out supine, like a display. Black birds perched on the antler points like grim reapers.

Hannibal hummed into the receiver, slipping another small cube of butter into the saucepan before whisking the mixture thoroughly. It was all part of a beurre rouge sauce of red wine, shallots, and onion he often made when he planned to serve red meat. “I remember those,” he replied. “The missing organs, correct?”

“Yeah. We still have no idea why.” Will sat down in his father’s chair and took a closer look at each of the photos. There it was easier to compare Boyle, the first victim laid out like a grand presentation, to Shurr, the later victim mounted on a wall.

“Shurr is so rushed,” Will thought aloud.

“Shurr was the second, right?”

“Yeah. Whoever did that one didn’t enjoy it as much as they relished in Boyle’s death.”

“How is this?” Hannibal asked, adjusting the temperature on the stove.

“I think it has something to do with the way Shurr is slumped down. Like she’s—like the killer, actually, is ashamed. His heart wasn’t into it. I don’t know all the details, but I know Shurr was somehow involved with some of the investigation... no, she was a friend of Hobbes’ daughter. The Copycat probably had some reason to kill her and he recycled his old method because he wanted the police to know it was him. But he was bored already. Psychopaths don’t usually kill the same way twice. The first time it was exciting, inventive; he relished in the process of preparing the body the way he did...” Will trailed off and his mind went wandering out of time and location. Then it clicked. “Does some of this remind you of Quinn?”

“What do you mean?”

Will put the photo down and thumbed through the file cabinet for something else. Hannibal waited patiently. There was a chance it wasn’t there, and Will considered himself lucky to find a few documents in the Snowman file.

Hannibal smiled to himself as he asked, “Is this what you do for fun? Compare serial killers’ art styles?” He adjusted the temperature on the stove when he felt the sauce getting a bit hotter than he needed.

Will chuckled. “You know, when homework gets boring.” He finally found a photo of Quinn with the coat hiding his body. Then another with the coat off and Quinn’s stomach slit wide open, intestines falling out of place. The loose skin, hanging from his abdomen, was riddled with bullet holes. Blood was caked to his skin. Will’s heart stirred but his mind was off hunting.

“Quinn’s murderer put a coat over him afterward,” he went on. “He was naked underneath. That’s the only respect in which they’re similar—that and I guess, you could say, the antlers as points of penetration are a bit like the gunshot wounds, but that seems coincidental. With Shurr and Boyle it had an ounce of dignity and here it’s just… mindless. Psychotic.” Will’s eyes traced the victim’s naked skin. “But with a remorseful aftertaste.” He leaned heavily on the desk with his palms. His legs were turning to liquid beneath him.

Hannibal didn’t help him at all, and Will was grateful for it. He clearly knew that Will wanted to do this himself, and that he was talking to himself more than anyone else.

Will thought deeper about this difference, looking back at the photo of Quinn covered up. He had to admit, after seeing the last photos of the body sliced open down to the groin, the coat did add a certain irony. And with that ingredient, the mix of Will’s emotions boiled over and his chest tightened.

“It’s the coat,” he whispered, nearly breathless. “If the bullet holes are penetration points like the wounds from the antlers, then the difference is how the victim was exposed after he was penetrated. Imagine this scene if Quinn didn’t have the coat. It would be so much different. It’s almost as if the killer is trying to protect the victim’s innocence.”

He frantically pulled back the picture of Boyle. That was it. “Boyle was placed in the middle of a completely empty field,” Will explained. “She was lying down with the deer antlers penetrating her, completely on display. Her location, the humiliation… The difference was in how they displayed their victims to the world. One with regret, one wanting her to be seen out in the open. It was voyeuristic. The Copycat was a voyeur.”

Will couldn’t move. His eyes were glued on the pictures of he had spread out across the desk with shaking hands, and no matter how hard he stared, the evidence didn’t lie.

“You did that,” he whispered.

There was no answer while Hannibal slipped in another cube of butter—what he anticipated to be his last—and sprinkled the mixture with a pinch of salt.

“You’re the fucking Copycat.”

Hannibal held the phone between his ear and shoulder while he whisked the mixture thoroughly. “I told you it’d been years,” he said.

Will exhaled but it came out a shudder. He clenched his fist on the desk; his fingernails dug with a pleasant sting into his palm. The pulse of his heart jumped out from underneath.

“You sound on the verge of imploding, my boy,” Hannibal muttered.

“Fuck you.”

“Go on.”

“Why’d you do it?”

“You have the pictures,” Hannibal prompted. “You tell me.”

Will looked at them again and the answer leapt out to him like it was spelled out in blood on Boyle’s pale stomach. “Because you needed to,” he answered. “Because if you didn’t…” He felt as if he was on drugs. His whole body, muscles and blood and all, was a building quivering on the resonance of an earthquake. “You might not be able to stand it anymore,” he whispered.

Downstairs, the front door opened.

Will’s stomach flipped. “Fuck,” he choked. “My dad’s home.” He set the phone on the table with a too-loud clatter.

If Hannibal replied, Will didn’t hear it. Blood pounded in his ears and pushed out anything but the pulsating fear. His hands were shaking so badly he could hardly put the pictures back in their proper folders. Meanwhile he was vividly away of every second that passed by, one less second he had left to clean up his crime.

Eventually he had the folders together. He dropped to his knees and shoved them back in the cabinet, then shut it, hopefully not too loud. He was about to get his phone and rush out of the room as fast as he could when he heard a noise that sounded enough like his name.

Will put the phone to his ear. “What?”

“The key.”

Will exhaled. “God, thank you.” He set the phone back and picked the key up on the desk, retaping it to the back of the novel. Then he stood up on his toes and pushed the book back into his place. 

“Thank you,” he said again into the phone. “I have to go.” He hung up, slid the chair into place, and darted back to his own room. The door shut just as Vincent’s footsteps were coming up the stairs.

Minutes later, Will’s door resounded with a few knocks.

“Y—Yeah?” He looked up from his computer.

Vincent eased the door open and leaned on the wall, hands in his pockets. “Hey,” he said, “just coming back to get dressed before I head over to Hannibal’s. You alright?”

“Yeah, I’m okay.”

Vincent nodded to himself, as if he was waiting for more, but Will didn’t think there needed to be any more said so he just looked back to his computer screen. The light glowed off his face, a good excuse to be looking so pale.

“What’re you doing?” his dad asked. “Something big on the homework front tonight?”

“Not much. It’s not due tomorrow or anything.”

Vincent chuckled. “You’re so proactive. I wish I was like that when I was in school.”

Will smiled a bit and just shrugged. “I guess. Thanks. Are you okay?” He risked a sideways glance at him.

“What? Oh, yeah, I'm fine. Just tired.” Vincent yawned and rubbed his face with both his hands as if he was trying to wipe something off. He let his hands down and it was still there.

They had nothing to say to each other and for a few unbearable seconds, stared at each other in silence from opposite sides of the doorway.

“Say hi to Hannibal for me,” Will said offhandedly, turning back to his laptop.

“I will.” Vincent was just about to leave but a step out, he paused. “I didn’t know you called him Hannibal,” he said.

Will’s heart plummeted. “I meant—” he started, “Dr. Lecter. I—you said his name earlier so that’s the first thing I thought of.”

“Ah, okay. Okay.” Vincent started to leave, then a few moments later after the door was nearly shut and Will was putting his earbuds back in, he returned for the second time. “Hey, Will?”

“Yeah?”

“Are you doing alright?”

Will knew he should be telling Vincent everything then, from the moment he called Hannibal that early January morning to the voyeuristic Copycat murders. Maybe Hannibal had lied about being the Snowman, too. Right now, anything was possible. But as soon as Will considered it he knew that was wrong. Boyle’s murder fit Hannibal like a glove. That level of cleanliness and graceful sadism were exactly what Will would have expected from him if he’d designed the murders himself. The Snowman was nothing like that. But either way, there he was, faced with the blunt reality of Hannibal’s crimes and his own, his defenses blown to pieces. He had to tell his dad. Or else he didn't deserve to be in society. He didn't deserve his father to even be asking him, “Are you doing alright?” He didn't deserve the slightest bit of love anyone had to offer him.

“Yeah,” Will replied. “I'm alright.”

Vincent nodded. “Okay, good. Just checking.” He smiled and shut the door behind him.

Will was finally alone.

**Gymnopedie No. 3 (Satie)**

Later that night, Will’s dogs were curled up at the foot of his bed, but he couldn't sleep. He lay on his side, blankets pulled around him like a cocoon and stared out the window, at the trees, the forest, the depths. Owls and crickets sounded outside. After living in the woods his whole life, Will, nine times out of 10, took it as something so constant in his life it was easy to ignore. But there were still moments when it took him instead.

He slid out of the covers and walked to his window, where he knelt down to rest his arms across the window sill. The cold clawed at his bare legs but he pushed it all to the back of his mind. Instead he projected himself outside the window.

There he was, the squirrel. Scampering across the ground, afraid to get caught if he stayed unprotected in the dark too long, he darted up a tree and found his solace in the leaves shuffling around him.

Then he was a crisp, brown leaf, with his stem poking out of the white. Most of him was entrenched in snow, the way he liked it, but his stem stuck out. If anybody happened across it they could pluck him up and pull him out of his haven. His only chance of escape was to become paralyzed, so that in his stillness he might become invisible.

Will didn’t register it at first—one moment his hands were burrowing into his armpits for warmth and the next they were picking up his phone.

‘Are you still up?’

Not twenty seconds later, “Read 3:04 a.m.” showed up below his message. “Christ,” Will muttered to himself. He started typing again. He got halfway through ‘Do you want to call?’ before the screen displayed an incoming call. Will smiled and hated himself for it immediately.

But he still picked up the call.

“Good evening,” Hannibal answered.

“Hey,” Will replied. He didn’t expect his tone to feel so stripped thin, nor did he expect Hannibal’s smooth voice to be such a needed refresher to his parched ears.

Whether Hannibal could sense it from his voice or if there was something in the air that affected them both, he let the silence persist for an inordinate amount of time.

Will turned to sit with his back on the wall next to the window. The cold air was trapped outside, but he could still feel it glowing off the glass when he was so close. “Is my dad still there?” he asked eventually. It was a throwaway question; Will knew he was. He’d gotten the call from Vincent and then the text from Ms. Bloom offering for him to stay over.

“He is. It was late, so I offered for him to stay over.”

“Oh.”

“I can see you didn’t tell him anything.” Evidently Hannibal wasn’t willing to play the game of beating around the bush, but it was one of Will’s favorite things about him.

“I tried to, but I couldn’t form the words.” Will leaned his head against the wall and closed his eyes, the phone’s cold screen against his cheek. Sitting there with nothing but empty air above and around him, and a thin door separating him from the abyss pervading up and down the hallway, he was an aimless asteroid in space. “I think you’re brainwashing me into your accomplice,” he muttered.

“I haven’t gone back on any promise I’ve made to you. I believe you’re only doubting my reliability because the truth was easier not to think about when the details were vague.”

“I guess.”

“But nothing about you, myself or us has changed.”

Will exhaled and rubbed his tired face. “I wish you could…” he trailed off, “come over.” Then he quickly added: “I know you can't.”

“I can't, but I'll keep to the promises I've already made.”

“Yeah?” Will rested his chin on his shirt collar. “Over spring break?”

Hannibal hummed in confirmation.

Will closed his eyes. He had already admitted to how many fantasies and expectations he’d constructed involving that trip. For instance, how would it feel to be under Hannibal? Will could easily put himself in scenarios he’d never been in. He cut pieces here and there: a gasp from when Hannibal came in his hand that first night or a stab of pain from Hannibal’s teeth on his neck, and weaved them into any new fantasy. He stripped the pressure of Hannibal’s cock in his palm and imagined that same feeling inside him. His inhibitions melted. He wanted it. Even after seeing the pictures of Boyle and Shurr, he wanted it.


	14. Fourteen

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys, so sorry about the wait. I've been really busy but I'm back on schedule now. And we're in the home stretch of the fic! Hope you enjoy :)

**Gnossienne No. 5 (Satie)**

Vincent’s mind crawled with insects while he drove back from Hannibal’s that next morning. He had to stop home to change and get some supplies for work, so he left before Hannibal even had time to make breakfast for them. Promises of a raincheck were exchanged, but there was no need. Hannibal would be making them breakfast every day that next week.

Sometimes Vincent closed his eyes and all he could see was the image of a bright cabin kitchen with the lake sitting outside the window. Hannibal was cooking something on the stove and Will was sitting at the bar right across from him. They were quipping back and forth, exchanging the same snide glances they had while hunting. Vincent was filling up his mug with coffee again and a grin was stretching his cheeks wide.

Every time he returned to that idea there was a new detail waiting for him. This time, Hannibal was wearing a sweater. But, inevitably, Vincent came back into reality with the soft roll of the car over the road and his hands, 10 and 2 on his wheel.

It was so early that just the pink and purple smoke of dawn was winding up from the tips of the trees like a forest fire encircling him from every side. He was wearing one of Hannibal’s shirts and hoping Will wouldn’t notice he was dressed differently than the night before, or at least wouldn’t think it was strange if Vincent was borrowing Hannibal’s clothes.

Eventually he came to a four-way stop near his house and slowed up next to the stop sign. He normally wouldn’t have come to a full stop since every road facing him was empty, clouded in shadows by the overhanging trees. This time he did stop. He let his hands slide off the wheel and sit on his thighs for a minute. He closed his eyes and let his head rest back, centering himself. He didn’t have to open his eyes to know there was no one there behind, in front, or beside him on the road. There was emptiness all around him.

He took the collar of his shirt up to his nose and inhaled deeply, until his lungs burned.

As it turned out, he didn’t have to worry about Will not noticing anything. With a discreet click of the front door behind him, Vincent arrived home to an empty house with all the lights off, downstairs and up the hallway. Will clearly wasn’t up yet; he didn’t have to be at Alana’s to be driven to school for another hour. Only the tiniest beams of morning light snuck over the furniture, soft-edged shards over Vincent’s face as he quietly ascended the stairs.

He had stored Hannibal’s shirt away in his dresser—to give back later, as he promised, but perhaps not—then dressed and was nearly off to work by the time Will stumbled downstairs. He looked barely conscious beneath his messy hair and eye bags hanging on his cheek. Vincent was throwing his coat over his shoulders and standing by the door when he looked back and watched him.

He couldn’t tell if Will noticed him or if his son was a ghost this morning. He certainly moved like one.

“Hey,” Vincent greeted. He had to clear his throat immediately after; the words were sticking. It felt unnatural to be even speaking, especially with the false levity he injected into his tone.

Will whispered, “Hey,” though Vincent couldn’t tell if it was a response or a figment of his imagination. The boy leaned on the fridge as he filled his water glass.

“You alright?” Vincent tried. “You look a little tired.”

“Yeah,” Will muttered, voice dragging on his throat. “Pretty tired.”

“Okay.”

Vincent was poised to leave, but he hung around anyway. He checked some emails on his phone, leaning on the couch, only so he could watch Will out of the corner of his eye and observe his movements. But, still, he knew that wasn’t enough. He wasn’t doing anything.

He took a deep breath and forced himself to muster, with all the energy he had in his body, “Bad night?”

“I guess.” Will crossed the kitchen to the pantry.

“Me, too. Man, I didn’t wake up the whole night, but I feel like I only slept for two hours.”

“Yeah, me too. Sort of.” There were a couple bananas sitting in a bowl near the pantry door, beside the rest of the fruit. Will pulled one from its bunch and took a sip of his water. With these things in his hands, his attention went everywhere but to his dad. He looked and acted as if he was the only one in the house.

Vincent sighed out of his mouth and pushed his phone into his pocket. He picked his bag off the floor next to him and walked to the entrance. “Have a good day. Call me if you need anything.”

“You too.”

Vincent left and shut the front door harder than he wanted to. His shoes crunched over the driveway pebbles with a brisk pace fueled by the burning frustration, resentment, fear, and desperation squeezed into a ball in his chest, ready to explode.

**Clair De Lune (Debussy)**

Alana and Will had a tradition of celebrating every year they entered the science fair, whether they placed or not. Sometimes it was just a few hours at a pizza restaurant or a movie marathon. This year, since regionals were in Richmond, they were roasting marshmallows over a firepit on the hotel’s back patio. It was 10:32 at night so they were now shivering, swaddled in their towels after an hour of swimming in the warm water.

“Can’t believe you’re not taking me,” Alana sighed. Her disappointment glinted in the firelight flickering over her face and the dark strands stuck to her neck. “What am I going to do over spring break?”

“I don’t know,” Will replied. “Just sit around and cry, probably.”

“And who’s going to roast your marshmallows for you?”

“Excuse me?” he asked, laughing. With his shivering, it came out choppy. “I can do that myself. I’m a full-grown teenager.”

“You always burn them.”

“I burn them because I want to. If I didn’t like them burnt I could take my time.” Right on cue, he edged marshmallow closer toward the licking flames and it caught aflame.

“See? See?” Alana laughed through her words at the same time as a car horn sounded in the near distance. They were right next to a road, where the city lights and moving cars lit up the skyline.

Will pulled the marshmallow back and blew out the flames. “Looks delicious.”

Alana turned her stick around to roast the marshmallow on the whiter side. She was more patient than Will and would take several minutes to get that golden-brown crispiness. Will never wanted to wait that long.

“Keep making fun of me and you might have to do your project alone next year,” he said.

“You couldn’t handle it.”

“Yeah, you’re right.” Will had the stick laid across his lap while he broke off a piece of a Hershey’s bar and set it across a graham cracker. He used the two halves to pinch his marshmallow and then drew out the stick carefully from its middle. “We need another year to get to state,” he added.

“Honorary mention isn’t so bad, though. I’m proud of that.”

“I’m proud of that, too.” Will gestured a toast to her and then bit into his s’more.

He stretched out on his lawn chair, wiping his mouth with his beach towel when he was finished with his first and Alana was just done toasting hers. Her hands glinted in his peripheral, bright shadows moving with care, while he looked up at the night sky. They were too close to the city for stars, but the longer he stared, tiny white specks emerged from the depths. He leaned his head back as far as it would go and in the top corner of his vision, caught the yellow light of his and Vincent’s room up on the third floor. The curtain was pulled, but Will could see his dad’s shadow moving. Will couldn’t discern what he was doing, but he was recognizable even from that distance. Every person moved with a different tempo and instrument leading their actions. Will had memorized a few of them.

He breathed out and all the tension in his body dissipated. He lowered his head back to center and rested his eyes shut while Alana crunched into her s’more. She hummed. “This is really good,” she said through a full mouth. Once she had swallowed she continued, “Glad you said to get the caramel kind.”

Will looked over at her. “Right?” he said. “Infinitely better. But it’s care-a-mel.”

“No, care-a-mels are the little squares,” she said, pinching her fingers an inch apart to demonstrate. “Car-mal is the flavor.”

“No, if you look at the word there are two a’s.”

“You’re grasping at straws here.”

Will breathed a little harder out of his nose as to indicate a laugh, and turned back up to the stars. His body was getting used to the chill, and between that and the porch lights above them, the air was growing warmer and easier to move in.

They went inside at about the time they expected one of their parents to come out and tell them it was time to go to bed. They planned to have an early start the next day, leaving as soon as possible so Vincent could get to work for the majority of the day. Will and Alana tossed water on the fire until it hissed out and smoke drifted up the side of the white-brick building.

A minute later, Will was swiping his key in the hotel door and coming in. The first thing he heard, after the buzz of his door shutting, was a feverish rustle of papers and other unidentifiable objects.

“Dad?” he asked. He walked cautiously around the corner of the short hallway to see Vincent bending over one bed. His dad’s suitcase and multiple folders laid out front of him in disarray. Papers were askew on the comforter and he had tossed his shirts and sweaters everywhere. Will stopped, and Vincent looked up with him, unable to disguise the panic in his eyes for a split second before he suppressed it.

“Hey,” he said, then forced a smile. Looked to the window. Looked back. Recalibrated where he was. “I was just going to come out and get you.”

“What’s wrong?” Will asked.

“Nothing, just looking for something. I probably left it at home”

Will looked over at the mess and nodded, not sure where to go beyond that. “Okay,” he replied. “I’m going to take a shower.”

“Okay.” Vincent turned back to his work.

Will pulled on a loose shirt over his bare chest, slightly uncomfortable being half-naked even in the security of his own hotel room. For a minute he sat on the toilet next to the running showerhead with his hand under the water stream. He figured out the faucet was labeled backwards and then when he was confident he wouldn’t burn to a crisp if he got in, he left the bathroom.

With a brief struggle he lifted his suitcase onto the comforter to get together his toiletries and a pair of shorts, but his mind was still on his dad’s figure on the opposite side of the room. Vincent had gutted his suitcase and his computer bag, and the entrails lay over the floor and the room. Finally he had stopped scrambling for whatever his hands were itching to get ahold of, but now they were resting on his knees while he sat on the edge of his bed, facing the wall. His chest heaved, but quietly. Will set his clothes down.

Any other night and he would have pretended he wasn't really paying attention. He could see his own reflection in the window, where the stream of blinking lights crossed his chest, but Vincent wasn’t looking there. With a bit of quiet he could have disappeared back into the bathroom. But instead, Will watched his reflection get larger and clearer while it came up to the edge of the bed and took a seat beside the second figure.

Vincent turned cautiously and looked at Will briefly with his glossy, red eyes before glancing away in fear of confrontation, reminding Will once again where he had gotten it from. Vincent tried to rub feeling back into his face with his hand.

He didn’t want to tell him what was wrong. He figured perhaps the refusal to say it out loud was a denial of the problem’s existence on the only level he could control. But even his mind was proving to be an untameable animal in these past four years, straying further and further from him every time he tried to hold the leash steady. An unidentifiable figure had his teeth in the animal’s neck and was tugging him deeper into the woods, beyond Vincent’s sight. All the while Vincent was well-aware that that figure was only himself.

He had looked everywhere, but he couldn’t find the Snowman files. Everything he’d left at work would surely be intact, but he had brought a few things from his home office in case he had the time to glance over them during the trip. That morning, he picked up the folder from his filing cabinet and put it in his suitcase. An easy, two-step process. But somewhere in that process, nearly everything in the folder had vanished. Copies of case reports and drug tests he’d brought from the office; a few pictures. There were a few bare bones left in the folder that hardly mattered and the rest was gone. Gone. They were only copies, of course, and all of those things were safely on file on his computer. But the paper copies hadn’t just disappeared into thin air. They had to be somewhere.

He had torn his suitcase and the whole hotel apart looking for them, and nothing turned up in his car either. For the past two hours he had been a complete wreck. But for the past four years, he knew, he had been a complete wreck.

Vincent lifted his head out of his hands and sniffed. “I don’t want to go into it,” he told his son.

Will looked down at the carpet. He didn’t know what to say.

Just the shower water hissed behind them, muffled by the closed door.

“Can I hug you?” Vincent asked.

Will’s mind didn’t register this. He looked sideways at his dad. “Huh?” he asked.

“It’s okay if you don’t want me to. I understand.”

The peace once holding Will together was crashing around him. He was reminded of when Vincent made tea and the boiling water made the kettle vibrate back and forth on the stove with an anxious rattling sound. He felt like that kettle. His body was shaking and there was something else making his blood boil in a way he didn’t understand, and feared to understand.

“Yeah,” he whispered. “It’s okay.”

Vincent shifted closer to him. When his body was nearly touching Will’s legs he twisted and put his arms around him tentatively, in the most awkward way possible.

Then Will’s head was against his dad’s chest. He felt the unfamiliar warmth encompassing him, diffusing inside him from a palm on his shoulder and arms around his body. Vincent squeezed him, and Will’s breath caught in his throat. Emotions bubbled to the surface of his skin faster than he could calm down. He was shaking. He had no idea why.

“I love you,” Vincent whispered.

The words didn’t just enter Will’s ear; he felt their vibration against his body. He squeezed his eyes shut in an attempt to hold it inside but just ended up squeezing out small tears as his dad chipped away at his defenses, little by little.

Vincent leaned down so his mouth was buried in Will’s hair when he mumbled: “I know there’s a lot I’ve done wrong, and I know that can be so difficult for you. But I just want you to know that I love you. You’re my son, and you always will be. No matter what.”

Will leaned his head into Vincent’s chest, into the fabric of his shirt soaked wet from where it laid against Will’s eyes. Vincent felt his son break in his arms. He just pulled him in tighter and rubbed his back. “I love you so much. So much.”

Will couldn’t say anything. There was nothing to say. He laid his head on his dad’s chest and sobbed.


	15. Fifteen

**String Quartet No. 8 in C Minor Mvt. IV (Shostakovich)**

Sunday morning, the day before spring break began, Will was lying on his bed with Winston sleeping on his leg and wasn’t far off himself. His eyes were wandering over every other sentence in his book without really reading them, dancing around sleep without the exhaustion needed to commit. A breeze too cold to be warm and too warm to be leftover from winter rolled through his open window with the same indecision.

The vibration of his phone on the bedside table was the only thing that pulled him half-awake. Will reached over to collect it and fumble with it a moment before holding it to his ear. “Hey,” he answered.

“Hey, Will.” Vincent replied in a breath, as if he wasn’t sure Will was going to pick up. “I was—” He hesitated. Will waited, eyes wandering again. “You know the plan for today was Hannibal and I were going to the opera, but something big came up at work… I can’t explain but I really need to be here. Like, I can’t leave at all. Do you want to go instead?”

Will had to repeat the explanation over to himself a few times to grasp it. When it started to register, he closed his book and started to sit up. “Oh,” he said. He didn’t have a clue what other response would be natural, much less unassuming. “Sure.”

“I don’t know if operas are your kind of thing, but you know, I don’t want the tickets to go to waste.”

“No, it’s fine.” Will took his leg gently out from under Winston’s chin and sat on the edge of his bed. “I can go.”

“It’s at three, but I’m texting you Hannibal’s number right now so you can plan when he’s coming over. You have a suit, right?”

“Yeah,” he replied.

“And a tie?”

“Yeah. I’m okay.”

“Okay, good. Sorry.” They were both quiet. Will sat with his elbows leaning on his knees, listening to the silence as if it was telling him something. He understood so crystal-clear he almost nodded.

“Be safe, okay?” Vincent asked.

“I will,” Will assured him. “Don’t worry.”

“Okay. I love you.”

“I love you, too.” The words fell off his tongue easier than before.

Will hung up the phone and let it fall down beside him. He lay utterly still, staring at the wall. His mind was spinning and swinging like a gymnast.

His phone buzzed with a new text from someone different. ‘Is noon alright?’

Sleep was now out of the question. He had about two hours to get ready, including the time he took to put himself through the longest, most thorough shower he’d had in months. He was in the middle of drying his hair when another thought made his heart pound as hard as the roar of the blowdryer in his ears—that maybe he should give himself an enema.

Accompanied by clips of fantasies he had been collecting over the last month, the idea made him grow a little harder under his towel. At the same time, fear stabbed him through the heart, and the resulting nausea was enough to give him a headache. He knew there was no way he’d be able to buy one, so there was no use worrying over it too much. If Hannibal considered that a possibility, he would plan for it. Hannibal planned for a lot of things; that was the real crux of the problem.

Minutes later, Will pulled his suit jacket over his shoulders and chuckled to himself. He figured he’d figured it out. The trip to the lake house was on for Tuesday afternoon. If his dad was too busy to take time off, he would feel guilty that his work got in the way of Will’s vacation time and Hannibal would graciously offer to take him instead. Alone. The opera was just the beginning. But all of it, Will knew, was just the appetizer. He was simply along for the ride.

The doorbell rang at 11:59 and Will headed downstairs, double-checking that his shirt was cleanly tucked into his pants on the way. Blood was already rushing to his head. Doubts that he had been harboring and unconsciously nurturing began to hatch as he crossed the entryway. But as soon as Will opened the front door and saw Hannibal standing there, a storm of red and black, a phenomenon took place. A flood of pheromones shut several parts of his brain down with a snap, and his jitters leveled into a pervasive calm. He stepped nonchalantly into the eye of the storm.

**Batti Batti o Bel Masetto (Mozart)**

“Good evening,” Hannibal greeted him.

After a good while of not seeing each other, Will had nearly forgotten the height difference. He had to tilt his head at a severe angle to look him in the eyes, and the three-piece made it that much more pronounced.

“Hi,” he answered, and left it at that. He kept his face neutral and gave him no inches. If Hannibal could look like a sociopath every moment of every day, so could he.

Will glanced down as he moved out of the way for Hannibal to step inside. Then he closed the door behind them and watched Hannibal take a quick look around to assess his new environment, the kitchen, the smokey light funneling in from the windows and the glimpse they had of the living room. He must have come to a satisfying assessment; eventually he returned to Will. Perhaps expecting a greeting Will wasn’t giving him or bracing himself for an inquisition he knew he would be receiving. Either way, they were both waiting.

Will leaned against the door, studying him with all his cards facing his chest.

“I apologize for the late notice,” Hannibal said, to fill the pause.

“That’s okay. I had enough time.”

“I can see.” Hannibal’s dark eyes surfed him. “You look exquisite.”

“Thanks.”

Will saw the slightest smile on Hannibal’s thin lips that quipped, ‘Oh, we’re playing this game, then,’ as he removed his jacket like a serpent shedding its skin, and draped it over the back of a stool by the bar counter with the utmost care. His hands worked dexterously like he was handling pure silk. Will’s eyes latched onto them. He wished he could be that jacket. Just to be handled like that.

“What came up for my dad so last minute?” he asked.

“I wasn’t given all the details,” Hannibal answered, turning back to him.

“The Snowman, maybe?”

“Perhaps.”

Will narrowed his eyes, but it didn’t make the answer any clearer. “And here I thought you had nothing to do with that case.”

“I never affirmed this had to do with the Snowman,” Hannibal replied unshaken, turning back. His posture was as still and perfect as a sculpture. “I was not given all the details.”

“But you never said you don’t _know_ what’s going on.” Will raised his eyebrows. “You just said nobody _told_ you what’s going on. There are other ways you could know.”

“Such as?”

“You’re playing with me.”

“You’re playing with _me_.” Hannibal smiled, wider that time. His attention shifted to other places on Will’s body and as nerve-wracking as eye contact was, it was perhaps more worrying not knowing exactly where his eyes were. “You’re hesitating to accuse me of anything, my boy, so I have nothing to defend.”

Will was able to accept this answer and move on, but he wasn’t thrilled about it, so he inhaled a breath and swallowed the growing lump in his throat. “Fair enough,” he muttered.

“It’s not in our best interest now to focus on such gruesome topics,” Hannibal said, resigned. Will chuckled, head down while his hair fell over his eyes. “Of more importance now is time management.” Hannibal had one hand in his pocket and stretched the other to pull his shirt cuff down and look at his watch. “It takes an hour to drive to the opera house,” he thought aloud, “but it’s best to arrive there an hour early at least, for a time cushion taking into account parking and miscellaneous inconveniences.”

“So it starts at three,” Will said, working this out in his head and glancing at the top corner of his vision like there was a clock there. “We should be there by two. Which means we should leave by one. And it’s noon now.”

“Correct.”

“I think your timing is off.”

“I wouldn’t make such a careless mistake.” Hannibal took a step forward and Will flattened his back against the door. But with another step, Will had nowhere to go. He kept his reluctant posture and tensed his shoulders defensively but looked Hannibal dead in the eyes.

Finally, when he was close enough, Hannibal bent down to press his nose against Will’s hair and inhale deeply. “You use too much cologne, my boy,” he murmured. “I’d rather smell you than sandalwood.”

“That’s the strangest thing you’ve ever said,” Will whispered. But the vague warning was empty. His words had no bite behind their bark.

Hannibal sunk down on a knee until they were nearly eye-to-eye before Will felt suddenly two hands gripping his thighs and he was pulled up off the ground as easily as if he weighed nothing. Will instinctively caught himself with his hands on Hannibal’s shoulders, although he knew he was more secure there in his arms than he was standing on solid ground. Now they were truly eye-to-eye. Will’s legs were wrapped around Hannibal’s hips.

At this level and position, Hannibal was shy an inch from grinding Will’s crotch against his stomach, and Will was all too aware of it. He could feel his heartbeat in his groin. But he was fighting a smile as he asked, “What do you need that strength for?”

“To overpower.” The slight of breath fell on Will’s lips.

“Are you going to overpower me?”

“Do I need to?” While Hannibal carried him off of the wall and to the living room, their faces were so close Will felt Hannibal’s whisper grazing his lips, but neither one closed the gap. At that distance, Hannibal’s voice traveled so low it burrowed under Will’s skin and shuddered.

Hannibal knelt on the couch and Will voluntarily laid back, hair flayed back like a mane. “Maybe,” he replied, a smile on his lips.

He watched as Hannibal began to calmly unbutton the top of his dress shirt. His expression showed no signs of amusement, but the hunger in his eyes said differently. Will felt the same way he thought Hannibal must have felt when he had his rifle pointed at his chest.

“I suppose,” Hannibal admitted, one button at a time, “after such a long time of not seeing each other it makes sense I would have to earn your obedience.” His shirt was lying open, giving away a sliver of his bare chest.

Will watched Hannibal’s deft fingers loosen and pull apart his tie. “I like that. Earn my obedience...” He sat up, reaching for the belt but Hannibal set his hand on Will’s chest and pushed him back down. Will fell back with his hair flayed out again.

“Patience,” Hannibal tsked.

He still had that cold edge to his voice that nearly fooled Will into thinking he might actually want to discipline him. Will welcomed it with open arms and a haughty smile. “We only have an hour,” he said.

“I’ll use it well.”

“May I undress myself?”

“You may. Thank you for asking so politely.”

Will rushed to pull off his own tie and unbutton his shirt and then drape them across the top of the couch. He struggled a bit with the pants, on the way hitting a literal bump in the road. He was aching to touch it but he knew it would only be testing Hannibal’s patience more, so he just folded them up and set them aside, naked except for his underwear. The slight chill in the air didn’t affect him much when his face was burning hot.

By then, Hannibal was unbuckling his belt himself. Every tantalizing moment he spent on his clothes was one less moment until Will was the victim of those hands. He was hypnotized. The belt was open, and Hannibal looked just about to pull out his cock. Will was salivating for that moment, heat spreading through his chest like a fever, when Hannibal asked him calmly, “Turn around on your hands and knees.”

Will did so immediately. Going by what he had seen in porn and the positions Hannibal ordered him to be in while they talked on the phone, he arched his back down and spread his legs as far as he could comfortably.

He knew he had done something right hearing the icy words, “Good boy.”

Just those two words were enough to make him melt into a malleable liquid metal. The unyielding obedience he gave Hannibal wasn’t just working for his own reward and it wasn’t just wanting for praise. The obedience was a reward in itself.

Hannibal pulled Will’s underwear down to his thighs and took his time caressing the curve of his ass with his palm. Will’s heart pounded. All of his focus streamlined to the gentle touch of Hannibal’s skin rolling across his, and his erection was just a thorn throbbing in the back of his mind. His eyes were closing and his senses drifting until the touch ceased and the hand came down hard on his ass. He jumped at first and then buried his burning face in his arm.

Hannibal spanked him again and Will pushed back into it. Pain was a cruel imitation of pleasure and it spread like a fire. He felt his cheeks parted, then a shift behind him, then a wet appendage circling his hole.

Shivers crawled up his spine. Will groaned; it came muffled in his arm. “Oh, God...”

Until this, Will hadn’t gotten one taste of Hannibal’s lips and he was starving for any contact. And though he had teased that entrance many times while masturbating on his hands and knees, imagining the head of Hannibal’s cock circling that spot, he had never felt Hannibal’s lips sucking and his tongue probing the slightest bit inside. He needed it. He craved it.

Hannibal’s nails dug into Will’s thighs as his motions got more feverish and his sanity slipped out of grasp. It was clear when the lust boiled over. Hannibal’s mouth abruptly left his hole and bit into the flesh of his upper thigh completely unhinged, and Will flinched as his eyes rolled back in his head.

Just as suddenly, Hannibal crawled over his back and yanked the boy’s head up by a fistful of his hair. Pain stabbed at Will’s scalp but he still breathed out a moan.

Hannibal whispered with his lips against his ear, “This is what it will feel like.” His cock, rock-hard, rubbed against Will’s wet hole. “When I finally fuck you.”

Will’s body begged on its own. He arched his back and grinded harder against the erection poised perfectly to enter him. The feeling of Hannibal’s weight and heat descending around him, suffocating every sense, was utterly intoxicating. “Push it in, please,” he breathed. “I wanna feel it.”

“I know you do.” Hannibal took the back of Will’s neck in his whole palm and pushed the boy down from his elbows to bow his ass higher, and kept him there. Now, like this, there was no possible way Will could fight back, even if it was an emergency. They didn’t have a safe word yet. Hannibal had unquestionable control over his body, and somewhere deep beneath the rubble of his decaying conscience Will knew this was a dangerous position to be in. But he was crumbling fast.

“Bow for me like this,” Hannibal murmured. He inhaled deeply against Will’s neck. He rolled his hips and thrust his cock to slide against Will’s hole. Will whimpered, bowed his head and grinded back. None of it was ever enough.

Hannibal licked a stripe up Will’s neck and swirled his tongue around the outside rim of his ear. Will’s legs shook. His body was a quivering fire slapped and pulled in every way by the storm ragin around him. He found himself slinking further down to bow his ass higher and willingly give away more and more motor control. As much as he could without allowing Hannibal to climb in and possess his body.

“Have I earned your obedience?” Hannibal muttered next to his ear.

“Yes,” Will whispered.

“Good boy.”

When Hannibal eventually leaned up and sat back, Will didn’t need a command to know what to do. He dropped down to his knees and made piercing eye contact while he licked up and down, sucked, deep-throated, worshipped, and devoured Hannibal’s cock like it belonged to him.

**Piano Trio in E Flat, op. 100 (Schubert)**

Hannibal was right about parking. They got there a little after two, but it took them a good ten minutes to find an open spot in the parking garage just a block away from the opera house.

Admittedly, Will was unnerved when he saw the crowds of people all heading inside. The sides of the building were all glass and he could see how large the crowds were gathering around bars and the ticket register. “It’s less crowded once you reach the upper levels,” Hannibal said, reading the look on Will’s face as they ascended the escalator from the parking garage.

“I’ll be okay,” Will replied. He was mentally bracing himself, determined to keep the promise.

They took a pebblestone path less-traveled by other visitors, making their way eventually to the building but undertaking a silent detour along the way through short grass and trimmed bushes. The lawn was spotted with some strange modern art pieces Will tried in vain to deduce while they passed through their shadows.

On their roundabout way to the doors, their path swept them near the side of the building, where groups of men and women were chatting over drinks at small tables dotting the lawn. One group of five or six men and women glanced their way and locked eyes with Hannibal.

Back at the house as they readied themselves to leave, Will had the privilege of getting to watch Hannibal dress. The image of him fixing his shirt cuffs around his wrists shocked Will with how swiftly it transformed him. ‘Glibness and superficial charm’ was just one more characteristic Will could add to the list of traits Hannibal had ever displayed. This was again that moment. Hannibal slipped on Dr. Lecter and smiled at the outsiders.

“Colleagues of mine,” he said under his breath to Will as they walked over. “This will be quick.” Will stifled a chuckle.

He briefly introduced Will as his friend’s son and Will shook all of their hands. Hannibal hadn’t mentioned which friend, exactly, but Will had a sneaking suspicion that they might deduce it anyway if Vincent had ever met these people and mentioned his son was autistic. Will tried to look them in the eyes but no matter how hard he urged himself, it wouldn’t happen. Most of the attention was on Hannibal anyway so Will went with the current and stared up at him as the adults chatted. If socializing was an acquired taste for him, Will thought, it must have grown on him quite a bit.

They were reminiscing a little about a New Years party that they had apparently all attended until Hannibal let the conversation come to a semi-natural end and excused them to get their tickets. Then the same situation happened three more times before they got up to the third floor.

After clearing all the groups of esteemed individuals asking Dr. Lecter to join them for a drink, Hannibal ordered a drink for himself in advance for Intermission and they killed empty time at an empty table. Next to them, the wall of windows put everything inside and outside on display.

It was thickly overcast that day so there was little light to accompany them. Clouds like streams of smoke drifted across the sky. But Will’s mind was somewhere else, mostly on the dull ache on the back of his thighs. He shifted in his seat a few times hoping to find a comfortable angle to sit. Just an hour earlier, Hannibal had bent his knees up to his chest, bending him in half, for easy access to his hole and cock—and his thighs, for leaving marks. Will could still feel the burn on his ass where Hannibal’s teeth had been.

“Feeling out of your element?” a voice pulled Will out of his reverie.

Will exhaled a nervous laugh. He looked out the window, watching cars inch forward in traffic and people greet each other on the grassy lawn. Behind them, in the middle of the marble floor, was a chandelier as tall as him hanging from the ceiling and sparkling in the window. “It’s beautiful,” he said, “but yeah. Does my dad like this? I know he was going with you originally.”

“He has developed a taste for it,” Hannibal answered. His eyes wandered like Will’s, past the couples taking photos beside the dangling ends of the chandelier. “He has one hand exploring this world and one buried in yours.”

“Split down the middle.” Will was tracing the circular shape of a light in on the tabletop with his finger, then he brought it down and cut it in half. Hannibal was following the motions.

His voice was always a violin crooning as though nothing existed in the world but that sound. When he was quiet, a comfortable silence drifted between them for several minutes and cleansed their palettes. In the environment they were in and its unfamiliarity, next to Hannibal it was more peaceful than Will could have anticipated.

A tone sounded over a speaker and the chattering crowds began to quiet down to hear the announcement that the doors were to close in fifteen minutes.

Hannibal stood up and Will followed his lead. Just as they were about to walk to the doors, though, Will felt a vibrating in his pocket and took out his phone. It was ringing faintly with an incoming call: his dad. 

His thumb hovered over the answer button, when Hannibal’s voice came from over his shoulder, cutting through the busy air like a knife through butter. “I would advise turning your phone off,” he suggested. “Let yourself relax for a while.”

Will considered this and realized that the prospect of not being interrupted by his dad for an entire night alone with Hannibal was too tempting to resist. So he cancelled the call, then shut his phone all the way off. Hannibal did the same with his and they walked up the slanted hallway to enter the opera house.


	16. Note

**If you’re reading this note and you haven’t read the one on the last chapter (it’s also on the first chapter) please look at that!**  
Of course, TLDR at the bottom.

This note got extremely long so I’m making it its own “chapter”. I realized I had no idea if you guys read the previous chapter in its entirety just because that was the obviously last thing on your minds lol, and I want your feedback on these last few installments so I’m going to split it up. The second-to-last chapter is right after this so if you want to skip all the discourse and just get to the story, go right ahead. It’s kind of an important one, so I hope you enjoy it!

First off, I’m excited to share something with you that has been in the making for a while. One reader of this series (and my friend :’) ) has been working on narrating this fic, chapter-by-chapter, and they gave me their permission to share the audios with you guys. If you like this fic I encourage you to go take a listen- they’re incredibly well-done and are all set to the music that goes along with each part. A lot of hard work and love was put into them. The creator asked me to take them down when I take this fic down too. The link is here:  
https://drive.google.com/drive/folders/1_nJXFX8SuKPgPvLEtmAEe1iJtpARqai7?usp=sharing  
The last few chapters aren’t there yet but I’ll put them up as soon as the reader sends them to me.

Hey, so, wow.  
The activity on the last chapter has been overwhelming and I’m really floored by everything people had to say. There’s a lot of things I want to talk about and I’ll try to keep it to-the-point.  
You guys have been the greatest. Thank you for all your love and support, more than I can say. I know a lot of you don’t agree with the choice I’m making but it means a lot that you understand and sympathize with why I’m doing it.

In looking at your comments I figured out a few more things I need to clarify that I missaid in my last chapter, so I want to address those first:  
It was never my intention to shame you guys or make you feel responsible for anything. I’m the one who took the time to write and publish the story so I have the full responsibility of it and I don’t want to push it onto anyone else. Everyone has free will to read what they want, and I know most of you will go on to read more underage-tagged fics or fics with similar themes and that’s your right to do so, even if we disagree.  
I’m sorry if in the process I made it seem like I don’t think very highly of you guys. One commenter pointed out that the phrase “probably just here to read some self-indulgent smut” can be taken as condescending and I’m sorry. That was never my perspective and that part should have been worded better. You’re all incredible and intelligent and deep and I love you. It’s true that there’s more to this story than just the graphic sexual scenes, and I’m seeing from some of these comments on the last chapter that a lot of you view the sex as being one element of the story, rather than the whole focus. I’m so grateful for that.  
I don’t want to make light of murder, either, which is still an extremely serious subject no matter how we’re desensitized to it. I only meant that murder is more black-and-white than pedophilia. Whereas there is less controversy around whether or not murder/cannibalism is wrong, the harms of pedophilia continue to be swept under the rug by some communities. I think a lot of the freedom we have with murder is through the original source material, which does a good job of portraying murder for what it is. But the subject can definitely be downplayed depending on its context, and that’s still highly insensitive to those whose lives have been hurt by it.

More than anything, I want to talk about this:  
It’s been so eye-opening to see many of you have gone through similar traumas depicted in this fic and are reading this because it’s therapeutic. Speaking honestly here, I believe I was writing it as therapy myself. When I was around Will’s age in this fic I was in an emotionally abusive relationship with an adult man, and although I cut ties with him years ago, the effects and the scars from that manipulation still linger. I know a lot of you are going through the same process, no matter if it’s been a few years or decades. I don’t think the effects of something like that ever really go away, they just change form. We can turn them into something positive. For me, this was the form they took, and yet I know that doesn’t excuse anything. I don’t view it as healthy, personally, but that doesn’t mean I can tell you what your healing process should be. We all cope differently and if this is uplifting for you, then I respect that.  
I’m starting to wonder if that’s why this fic helped some of you work through abuse you’ve gone through. I was also working through a lot of mine, and maybe somehow I was able to convey that to you unconsciously through the way I wrote and worded this story. The idea that we were all healing together is incredible to think about.. I don’t even know what to say. If you can relate to this, please know: I love you. You are valid and seen and loved. Thank you for connecting with me and being with me on this journey.  
That this impacted so many of you positively is more than I could ever ask for. I hope that after this fic you continue to grow stronger out of your experiences and cope in ways that keep you and others healthy and safe. You all deserve so much happiness. Keep prioritizing that. <3

There’s been a huge influx of people recently telling me not to delete it, that I have every right to continue it, that I was shamed/bullied, etc. I hear your reasoning that this is an example to other writers who are receiving backlash too and trying to work against it. Meaning that if I delete my fic it may encourage censorship. I get that. I really do. But it’s important to emphasize that I only got one comment. A lot of authors get far, far more than that and just ignore them. This one comment impacted me so much because it opened up a lot of feelings I had been having for a while and had just chosen to suppress. I truly don’t believe I was shamed into deleting it; I think I was reasoned with very harshly, but sometimes that’s what we need. That’s not to say that other authors don’t get “shamed” into discontinuing their projects. I don’t know their experiences so I can’t speak for anyone else. I just want to clear up that it’s a slightly different situation here than what some are assuming.  
Like I said in the last chapter, I can’t tell you what to do, read, write, or think. But even if I do have every right to continue or keep it up, I’m still going through with this. It feels right to me and I want the weight off my shoulders.  
Seeing how many people see it as therapy, there is admittedly a strong part of me that doubts if I should even take it down. So I think I might orphan the work instead. If this is healing for you I think you deserve to keep it, even more than I do. But I want to stick to my initial plan and I don’t want this on my page anymore. So I’m trying to find a middle ground. There’s no perfect solution, I just want to find the best one.

Again, thank you. The support has been incredible and to hear all your guys’ stories and the varieties of opinions on the subject has been a great experience. I do intend to respond to everyone just cause I haven’t been doing that for a long time and we’re in the home stretch of the story now, so why not?  
Same as before, let me know if I missed anything. Thank you and I love you <3

TLDR;  
It was brought to my attention that some things I said could’ve been taken the wrong way: I never meant to shame you guys for what you read or put any of the responsibility on you. I accept all of it. I don’t want to make light of murder, either; it’s an extremely serious subject we’re far too desensitized to. I think very highly of you, as my readers, fellow fans, and fellow creators. I love you all so much.  
I’m shocked by how many of you are reading this as a form of therapy and it’s a true honor that I could have impacted you positively in that way. Please continue to put your health as your priority and continue that therapy in healthy, constructive ways.  
I hear your arguments that what I’m doing is encouraging censorship, but I’m still going through with it because I’m doing it for myself as well as for the safety of others. I’m giving anyone full permission to reupload it if that’s what you really want, since I empathize with your points and because this has been healing for more people than I expected. You guys deserve that opportunity to use this as positively as you have been, even if I personally want to step away. Email me if you want to do that.


	17. Sixteen

**Chanson du Toréador (Bizet)**

They were waiting for about ten minutes in the sea of attendees after taking their seats. Violins, trumpets, and unidentifiable woodwinds hummed disorderly from the pit beneath the stage, like the chatter around the grand theater of audiences trying to shift down the narrow aisles and sending last minute texts. Phone screens blinked in the sea of heads below their mezzanine. Hannibal had snagged them perfect seats right in the center of the second level.

While they waited for the show to begin, Hannibal leaned over and asked Will how much he knew about _Carmen_. Will didn’t know a lot, nor did he care very much, but he let Hannibal go on about Elīna Garanča and Bizet and some information only an opera enthusiast with far too much time on his hands would know. But Will wasn’t complaining. He gave Hannibal the satisfaction and listened gladly, nodding and letting his eyes wander around the red curtain that fell over the stage.

Finally the lights went down and ushers locked the doors. The orchestra tuned one last time, and then one by one, quieted as the director emerged. A thundering round of applause welcomed him and then just as quickly, fell deafeningly silent.

Will found himself inexplicably teetering on the edge of a cliff waiting for something to happen. Anything. For the still figure of Hannibal to move or for their arms, far too close between their seats, to rub together and throw his heart against the wall. Will had brushed his teeth before they left, but in the very back of his mouth there was still a little taste of Hannibal’s cum remaining. He had been saving it, just to remind him of where he would rather be. Under him.

Abused by him.

Will rolled his tongue in that spot, and closed his eyes.

Finally, the orchestra shattered the tension. Bows ripped across the strings. The curtain parted, and the show began.

Right away, Will recognized one of the first songs that played in act I. _“L’amour est un oiseau rebelle, que nul ne peut apprivoiser,”_ or Habanera. But he had never before seen it paired with the English translation atop the stage or watched the performance itself.

_Nothing helps, neither threat nor prayer._

When they first sat down he’d made fun of Hannibal’s modern-styled opera glasses, but it wasn’t long before he gave in and was borrowing them for the majority of the song, just to stare into Carmen’s smoldering eyes while she beguiled José.

_You think you're free, it holds you fast._

It was the closest Will had ever gotten to being attracted to a woman. Carmen commanded the stage and every actor on it with so little effort. With just a slight of hand or a shift in her hips as she prowled around the men surrounding her, she could bring a city to ruins.

_If I love you, you'd best beware._

Near the end of the act, Will heard another song he knew he recognized.

_“Pres des remparts de Seville, chez mon ami, Lillas Pastia, j'irai danser la Seguedille, et boire du Manzanilla.”_

He leaned over to Hannibal and whispered, “You played this when my dad and I were at your house. Like, a month ago.” With no immediate answer, Will turned his head and looked him dead in the eyes. Two pits of black stared him right back. As he looked into the abyss, the abyss looked back into him.

“It’s a beautiful song,” Hannibal whispered.

Will laughed silently and moved back into his seat, settling in to refocus on the stage.

The song went on for a minute longer before he reached into Hannibal’s lap and, in the dark, semi-accidentally brushed his upper thigh whilst searching for the opera glasses. With just one touch he’d snared Hannibal’s attention. But when Will’s finger touched metal he took the glasses up and innocently pulled his hand away.

Now he could see how Carmen’s wrist was bound to a post, so she couldn’t move but a few feet from her spot. She paced back and forth like a tiger in a cage. From a distance she gazed at Jose with a coquettish smirk, trilling her voice tempestuously while she waited for the moment to strike.

**Habanera (Bizet)**

“Would you like some wine?” Hannibal asked.

Will smiled to himself, flipping through the menu. “I’m alright,” he said. “Didn’t taste as good as you guys made it sound last time.”

Hannibal insisted on one appetizer in particular, assuring Will that he would thank him once he tasted it. Will grimaced when he saw it cost $25—and still less than the main courses, but Hannibal insisted that money was no issue, and Will figured that he wasn’t downplaying it considering he had already spent a good amount just reserving them the private room they were in. There were a few other tables for four around them, but they were empty. The closest people were a party of ten or more in an adjoining room to their right, making a good amount of half-muffled noise.

Spending was unavoidable in a restaurant giving off such an opulent ambiance, anyway. The modern-style geometric chandelier above them captured them in a dim light, a bit unnerving against the red walls trimmed with white, though not as deep a red as Hannibal’s tie and vest. All the walls to the private room were glass. They were visible to everybody in the main dining hall, but nobody knew what they were saying.

Will remembered what Hannibal had said about his dad having adapted to the luxurious environment, and he was feeling the effects now without any wine to help. He found himself copying Hannibal’s stance; crossing his legs, sitting up tall, settling into his environment like he belonged there when he knew in his heart he did not.

Hannibal ordered a bottle of wine, as expected, and Will just couldn’t waste the opportunity to tease him. “Tell me a fun fact about that wine,” he said, once the waitress had left the room. He glanced at him over the glass of ice-cold water he brought to his lips.

Hannibal didn’t miss a beat as he surveyed the menu for their appetizer options. “I’m delighted you asked,” he said with a bright smile. “This specific brand of Pinot Noir is not quite as exotic as the last wine I introduced you to, having been crafted from a region near Portland. The United States is the second-biggest producer of this variety. But Pinot Noir is one of the oldest wines in the world, with history dating back to the first century. Caligula might have savored these same flavors. Jesus could have performed his first miracle at the Wedding of Cana with this wine. In fact, much of its popularity can be attributed to the churches that…”

They talked a bit more about _Carmen_ and Will apologized for initially thinking Hannibal’s fascination with Elīna Garanča was silly. The _Seguidilla_ seduction song wasn’t the last one he recognized, either. The interlude into the second act, Will realized, was the same tune playing when Will entered Hannibal’s house for the first time. _Les Dragons d’Alcala._ But Will didn’t bring this up. He didn’t want to acknowledge it too thoroughly himself.

They pointed out little nuances in the performance before the conversation turned naturally over to the regional science fair Will had competed in, once Hannibal gave him belated congratulations on his award.

Their appetizer came while Will talked about roasting marshmallows with Alana at the hotel.

“Well, we always have to do a celebratory thing afterward,” Will told him as the waitress left the room. “Usually it’s not so strange. Last year she just stayed over at my house for a movie marathon.”

“She stays with you often?”

Will was about to answer but when he took a good look at the plate between them, he got distracted. Before them was a cylindrical tower of avocado, red fish meat and some leafy topping he didn’t recognize, in the middle of thin overlapping orbits of red and orange sauces he also didn’t recognize. “Sorry, what am I about to eat?” he asked.

“Tuna tartare with avocado, mango, and sriracha.”

“What’s the orange sauce?”

“That’s the mango.”

“Oh, that’s the mango.” Will cut into the tower, and his skepticism lingered until he tasted it and the flavors melted together in his mouth. His eyes closed. “Wow,” was all he could say.

“Good?”

“Very good.” Will dropped his fork on the plate and held his wrist to cover his mouth while he savored the bite. “Incredible.”

“I’m glad.” Hannibal picked up his fork and sliced through one side of the tower. “So Alana stays with you often?” he asked again.

“Alana?” Will shrugged. “Yeah, I guess pretty often. We’re neighbors.”

“And her parents allow it?”

“Her mom.” Will looked up at him and a smile began to spread on his lips. “Yes, she allows it. Alana’s practically my sister.”

Hannibal copied his smile guiltily as it was clear Will was catching on. “Just a thought,” he replied.

Will chuckled and shook his head. “It’s really nothing like that. We used to have crushes on each other but it didn’t last. She had a thing for me, then about the time she stopped liking me I thought I liked her, then I stopped when I figured out I wasn’t even into girls, so nothing ever happened.” He waved his hand in the air to dismiss the idea. “And it’s better that way.”

“I’m glad to hear that.”

Will gazed at Hannibal, trying to measure the flickers of thoughts on his face to real emotions. One of the effects of the lights in their private dining room and their sparkles in the red wine and Hannibal’s dark eyes was that Will couldn’t have mustered anything other than sincerity in his tone, even if he’d wanted to lie, and he couldn’t have muted his grin even if he tried. He’d pulled it straight from his chest. “You’re jealous,” he said.

Hannibal actually hesitated before he replied, loosely resting his hand around the neck of the wine glass with poise to take it up. When he had laid his words out in order he answered, “I’m aware that if you were interested in her there would be nothing I could do to sway that, because of how long you’ve known each other and how long it will take me to match your level of emotional intimacy with her. I would be hard-pressed to compete for your attention.”

Will was surprised by the ring of sincerity in that answer. He glanced down at the tablecloth still swallowing it. “Not going to lie,” he said, “I’m really gay so you don’t have to worry about that.”

Hannibal smiled, somewhat amused and somewhat relieved, and lifted his drink to his mouth.

Will went to take another bite of their appetizer but first he went on, “What if I liked some kid at school, though? And he liked me and we wanted to date?”

The pause before Hannibal replied was unmistakably tense. “If that was your choice, I would respect it,” he replied. “I know you’re young and you might want to,” he hung on the word to follow, “experiment, and to have a variety of partners. As long as I am aware of it.”

Will snorted. “Experiment,” he repeated, wiping the corner of his mouth with his napkin. “You say as if you’re writing off my options. I mean—that in comparison to you, anything else is ‘experimenting.’”

Hannibal hummed to himself. “But are you interested in anybody else?” He looked up and made eye contact.

Even if Will hadn’t wanted to tell the truth, he was strapped to a human lie detector. The eye contact was gripping. Will hesitated, a little fear stirring under his skin in anticipation that Hannibal might not like the way he answered. Or maybe it was arousal. The two were indistinguishable now.

“No,” he answered finally.

The air between them relaxed. Hannibal sat back and gestured to him, with a cocky hook at the ends of his lips that Will couldn’t seem to tear himself off of. “Then there you have it,” he replied.

Will grinned again, turning back down to the appetizer to have the last bite he had been silently offered. “Fuck you.”

“Go on.”

Will processed this as he focused his eyes on the table, chewing and swallowing. He’d heard those two words before when discovering Hannibal was the Copycat but hadn’t zeroed in on them, being preoccupied with other issues. Now it was starting to sink in, and make sense in a way nothing had before. Staring down at the white tablecloth, he started to smile. The fear he’d felt before, he could determine now, was definitely arousal. The twitch of his cock in time with his flushed heartbeat gave it away. And how else could such a thing turn over so quickly and make him feel so dauntless?

He leaned in, very carefully, and caught Hannibal’s dark eyes in his. “You know,” he whispered, “I’m gonna be honest. The more we talk and the more I get to know you, the less I feel like you want to fuck me and the more I get the idea you want to be fucked _by_ me.”

Hannibal didn’t have to say anything. The sparkle from the chandelier shifted a little in his eyes and suddenly he looked oddly coy.

Will’s confidence grew as Hannibal’s waned. He had simply never seen him retreat like that before. And Will wouldn’t let him escape. “I could be totally wrong,” he went on, “but just by the sheer number of times you’ve acted interested in being submissive and telling me how much more power I have over you… I don’t know. The events seem to correlate.”

Hannibal sat back in his seat and crossed his legs, and now Will knew he had him. He smiled. “How accurate would you say that is?” he asked.

“I’d say that’s very accurate indeed.”

Will grinned ear-to-ear and leaned on his hand while he stared, trying to match the abstract idea to the face. The more he looked at him, the more sense it made. “Hannibal Lecter the bottom…” he wondered aloud.

“You see right through me.”

“Do you, like, prefer it?”

“I don’t know if I’d say I prefer it,” Hannibal answered. He moved their empty appetizer plate to the side of the table. “I’m highly selective with my partners when it comes to receiving. Not including you, I’ve only been with two partners in that way. Technically one. The second was an impulsive choice I made in a time of weakness, and I regretted it immediately afterward. I’ll say politely that I reversed my actions in the only way I could.”

Will thought it over. “You killed him?”

“Impolitely, yes.”

“What do you enjoy more, between top and bottom?”

“I don’t know if I could pick between them,” Hannibal answered, pausing to take another taste of his meal. Then he went on: “They both satisfy different desires. If I had to settle with just one position forever I would choose receiving, but perhaps it’s just because I’m in a period of drought.”

“Period of drought?”

“I haven’t been the receiving party in over a decade.”

Will’s eyebrows went up. “Over a decade? You must be going insane.”

“I’m delirious.”

Will felt that. Hannibal’s eyes, coming up suddenly to meet Will’s with an unspoken question, were smoldering like coals, and Will could see it all now. The sexual anguish. The way his mouth was watering for it.

As he leaned in Will asked, voice low, “Sure I'll be big enough for it?”

“You don't have to worry about that,” Hannibal whispered. His eyes were closed halfway and focused on Will’s bottom lip, imagining God knew what.

The door to the private room opened and they reset back to a casual demeanor. Hannibal slipped on his alter ego before Will’s very eyes, calmly thanking the waitress as she laid their entrées before them.

After she left the room Will immediately picked up the conversation, eager to continue his probing. “And actually, it might be better that way,” he said. “Me receiving could take a while to build up to, but if it were the other way around… You’d be ready for that right away. I can see it in your eyes. How badly you want it.”

Hannibal replied with absolute certainty, meeting Will’s eyes again. It had ceased to be uncomfortable long ago. He might as well have been talking about the meal, but he explained, “If we were better prepared and in a more private setting, you could tell me to bend over this table right now and I would do so in an instant.”

Will smiled as one of his brilliant ideas occurred to him. He sat back and let his nomadic gaze wander across Hannibal’s body. “How hard are you right now?” he asked.

“Tremendously.”

“I have a challenge for you: go to the bathroom, jerk off for a minute exactly. Not in the stalls, out in the open. But don't come. Then come back.”

Not an ounce of hesitation stopped Hannibal from setting the napkin on his lap on the table and standing up. He was even eager to do it. Now Will could look him up and down; particularly of interest was the bulge pressing against Hannibal’s crotch. Before he left, Hannibal rounded the table to Will’s side and leaned down to ask, “What should I think about?”

Will rose up slightly to close the distance, just enough to whisper, “My cock, filling you, reminding you what it's like to be really fucked.”

A small, meager breath left Hannibal’s lips. He turned and buttoned his jacket down to cover most of the incriminating area before he exited the glass room.

Will had a minute to enjoy his food while he waited for Hannibal to come back, but in his head he was brainstorming everything else he could ask him. There probably wasn’t a question Hannibal wouldn’t answer when he was as vulnerable as Will had made him. After all, he was holding the possibility of antidote after a decade of delirium over his head. Will had to grin like a madman while he thought about it. His eyes caught on the glass of wine, half-full on Hannibal’s side, and he did a quick glance around before reaching across the table and scooping up the glass. As he expected, the small sip he took was as disgusting as the last time. He grimaced, put the glass back and drank enough water to wash away the taste. But of course, the taste hadn’t been the point.

About a minute later, Hannibal came back just like planned. While his jacket was buttoned down he looked like his normal distinguished self, but once he stepped into the room and closed the door he pulled the button open and let Will fixate on the now-clear outline of his erection against his thigh. Will put his hand over his mouth, laughing silently while Hannibal took a seat. “I did exactly as you asked,” he said.

“I can see that.” Will’s eyes lingered, then he composed himself in his power position again and dug his fork into his meal. “Give me details,” he said, dismissive.

“It was such a relief to get a hand around myself,” Hannibal told him. A small exhale in his words made the flush in his cheeks flare. “There was nobody else in the restroom so I had one hand on the wall, balancing myself as I bent over 90 degrees and stroked myself feverishly. Anybody could have walked in at that moment and seen me, and you did not give me permission to stop if I was caught.

“Every 10 or so seconds I looked at my watch and then stopped when my time was up. I was imagining what it would be like to feel your cock inside me while you’re choking me. You have me at your mercy and you show me none. I want you to fuck me like you own me, Will. Like you want to hurt me.” His eyes, throbbing with the arousal keeping him hard underneath the table, wandered down Will’s small frame. “The idea turns me on.. more than I can put into words.”

“Wow,” Will murmured, to himself. He wiped his mouth indiscriminately, feeling a surprising amount of heat pulse in his lower stomach as well. He had never even considered the idea of being on top before, but the way Hannibal described it was opening up a whole array of unfamiliar flavors of arousal. All of which didn’t taste as bad. “Well…” he said, “over spring break…”

“Or sooner.”

Will raised his eyebrows. “You mean tonight?”

Hannibal looked at his watch. “It’s 7:03. What time does your father normally get home?”

“About this time. But if he’s working late sometimes it’s around 9, and he seemed pretty busy.”

“And if we were to return a bit later than expected, what would our excuse be?” Hannibal asked.

Will paused, and smiled as reality started to hit him. It could work. The possibilities were making him harder. “Oh yeah, sorry, dad,” he answered flippantly, with a wave of his hand. “Traffic was bad and after dinner we went out walking around a shopping area for a little bit. No we didn’t buy anything, we just talked and stuff.”

“Sounds like a solid excuse to me.”

They left the restaurant with the expectation that they would go back to Hannibal’s house afterward. Will was glowing, practically jumping out of his skin with anticipation. He just thought he should be sure everything was fine with his dad so he could say he wasn’t ignoring his texts or making himself suspicious.

He took his phone out of his back pocket and turned it back on as they walked through the double doors out into the chilly night air and the accompanying sounds of the highway in the distance. The farther they got into the parking lot, the more Hannibal began to fall back, eventually several steps behind by the time Will’s phone had rebooted. Will unlocked it and checked to see no new notifications.

But it took a few seconds to load. All at once his phone was blowing up. Twenty-two missed calls, thirty texts, all dispersed throughout the past five hours. The first few were from his dad. The rest were from Alana, Ms. Bloom, and Uncle Jack.

Will stopped in his tracks a few feet away from the car. But the rest of the world faded far, far away.

Jack had texted him the most, so he called him first. He picked up within a few rings.

“Will.” His deep, steely voice hit Will like a train. “Where are you?”

“I’m in Baltimore,” Will answered carefully, “what’s going on?”

“Are you okay?”

“Yeah, yeah, I’m fine.”

“Are you with Hannibal?”

“Yeah.” Will slowly turned around. Hannibal was standing behind him, a safe distance, when their eyes connected in the dark. To give himself something to do, he glanced down and pulled his own phone out of his coat pocket in calculated movements.

“What’s going on?” Will asked.

“Tell him to check his messages and drive you to the station. It’s… hard to explain over the phone.” There was dead silence as Will waited for more. Finally, Jack gave in. “There's been an incident with your father.”

Will’s heart was cold in his chest. “Is he okay?”

“He’s not hurt.”

The light of Hannibal’s phone glowed on his face and he stared down at the screen until he felt Will’s gaze, and he met it again. It was indecipherable.

Will whispered, air punched out of him, “I’ll be there soon.”

“Okay. Please be safe.”

“I will.” Will hung up. He slipped his phone in his pocket and faced Hannibal front-on. His body was beginning to shake against his will and stomach turned violently. Hannibal was still unreadable, his face a blank slate waiting to reflect anything put in front of it while he sent whatever message he was typing. That was the last straw to send Will over the edge. He came tumbling off the cliff when it all started to make sense.

“What did you do?” Will whispered, voice wavering.

Hannibal didn’t answer.

Will wanted to charge him like a bull. He wanted to slap him, choke him. But he stayed in his place because he was too terrified to be violent, and he had no idea what Hannibal would do to him if he threatened him. He balled all his energy up without an outlet and burst into flames.

“What the _fuck_ did you do?” Will asked, again, voice breaking.

“I think we should let Jack explain what happened when we get there,” Hannibal answered, and started walking around Will to the driver’s seat.

“If you hurt him I’ll fucking kill you,” Will breathed, watching him. “I’ll kill you.”

Hannibal didn’t say anything while he unlocked the car and stepped inside. He knew there was nothing he could say. Will felt the whole world rushing past him, blowing his feet out from under, and it was beyond him how he managed to drag himself to the passenger’s side and get in.

**String Quartet No. 8 in C Minor Mvt. V (Shostakovich)**

Will stared like a zombie out the window while they drove down the highway, passing trees of black, hills of black, skies of black; everything abysmal. When Will finally mustered the power he called Alana to let her know he was okay, and right after her Ms. Bloom, neither of whom knew exactly what was going on. Apparently nothing was ‘certain.’ The only thing Will knew for sure was that Hannibal had everything to do with it.

He should have known as soon as he heard the Seguidilla in Act I, and definitely since he heard the interlude to Act II, the same song he heard the first time he stepped into Hannibal’s house. That was as far back as December, before he’d even called Hannibal that one morning. It felt like years ago. Will leaned his forehead against the freezing cold glass, speechless in his nausea.

Hannibal’s voice slithering out of the void only aggravated it. “Jack messaged me back to assure me he’s not in danger,” he said.

“I’m an idiot,” Will whispered. He felt Hannibal’s eyes on the back of his head. He knew he should have felt them closing in for months now; should have been doing something about it.

“Not at all, Will.”

“You said that if you were ever manipulating me I wouldn’t notice.”

“I haven’t been.”

“Fuck you,” Will muttered.

“My boy—”

“Shut the fuck up,” he snapped.

Hannibal obeyed immediately and flipped on the radio to a classical song that filled the space in between them.

They drove into the station parking lot and as soon as the car was parked and the engine off, Will bolted out the door and slammed it behind him. He headed straight for the prison building and Hannibal had to walk quickly to catch up with him, not beside him but at his heels.

Somehow Uncle Jack must have known they arrived because he met Will outside the building moments before Will would have come storming in. “What happened?” Will demanded to know, walking up. “Where is he?”

Jack’s initial lack of an answer spelled fear and reluctance while he led them inside. But Will’s persistence forced his hand. He began steadily, “This morning your father was called to a rather brutal crime scene and he disappeared later in the day to return to it, without us knowing. Then he called us in a panic.”

“What did he say?” Will asked.

Jack paused and looked down at the side of Will’s face like giving off the illusion of eye contact, letting Will search his expression frantically for anything else. “He told us he was the Snowman,” he whispered. “I’m sorry.”

Will and Hannibal waited for the prison staff to call them back. There was a bench outside a door leading to the interrogation room, where Jack had disappeared, and they sat on opposite sides of it. Neither were looking at each other. Hannibal didn’t dare speak to him, but every moment they had to spend next to each other still infuriated Will. As much as he tried to wipe Hannibal’s existence from his mind it was impossible, because even when Hannibal was ignoring him their attention was stuck to each other. As long as they sat in the same periphery, the magnetism was all that filled in the empty space.

Seconds passed like minutes between them while Will sat hunched over his knees, trying to ignore the pull. He wanted to spit on him. He wanted to choke him and pull his hair from his scalp.

Finally the door opened with a creak, and Jack nodded Will in.

Will followed him through another hallway to a door the guards opened for him. What lay inside was a metallic box. Shiny grey tile covered the room from top to bottom and the only sign of life was Vincent, who sat at a table with his wrists chained together in front of him and bolted to the table. He still wore his normal clothes, though they were soaked through with sweat and his muscles were barely breathing underneath. Will was taken aback by the state of him. His dad’s eyes were red and swollen; eye bags thick, heavier than the presence of life in his gaze. His hair was a mess, like grasp burnt to a crisp and hanging everywhere. Vincent didn’t look at him, he only turned his head up and made eye contact with Will’s cheek, because he couldn’t not look at him but he couldn’t meet his eyes either.

The door closed with a bang.

“Hi,” Vincent whispered.

“Hey,” Will whispered back.

He took a seat across from him and the chair scraped the floor beneath, a drop of water in an echo-chamber. After that he wasn’t sure at all what to do. There was nobody in the room but them, so Will just set his hands on the table, copying his dad, and kept his head down.

Another feature of the room was the black window facing Vincent, and Will had noticed this right away when taking a seat. From the other side of the glass, Jack and Hannibal were watching the scene play out. Next to them was a monitor showing several other angles of the scene. It was convenient so that Hannibal could allow his gaze to stick on the box showing Will’s dark expression.

They allowed the silence to persist between the two before Hannibal turned sideways to Jack. “I think we should mute them,” he suggested. “They deserve their privacy.”

Jack’s chest released a sigh and he took his heavy hand up to press a button on the panel before them. The sound clicked off in their studio so that when Vincent finally opened his mouth, they couldn’t hear what came out.

They continued observing the conversation through body language. Hannibal knew he had to approach this carefully, judging by Jack’s expression floating like a ghost in the glass reflection. His eyes were on the window but his mind was miles deep in the ground.

Gently, sympathetically, head bowed in the appropriate mourning language, Hannibal asked, “Is there anything more you can tell me about this?”

“I never meant for this to happen,” Vincent whispered, head down. “I just… God, you know I meant what I said yesterday, right? I love you. I want you to be absolutely certain of that.”

“It’s not your fault.” Will leaned forward.

Vincent inhaled deeply and closed his eyes. “It’s...”

“No, I mean it, dad—it’s not your fault. You didn’t do this.”

“I appreciate your faith in me, I really do. It’s more than I deserve—”

“It’s not faith, I know it. Not in a loving son kind of way, I mean I know who did this.”

“Will, I _remember_ doing it.” Vincent looked up for the first time and met his eyes. “I was repressing it, but I have clear, vivid memories of when I…” He had his hand raised to pantomime something but it lost its energy and fell back onto the table, clutching its mate.

Will was speechless. He knew Hannibal was clever, and he probably had aces up his sleeve Will hadn’t even dreamed of, but implanting false memories? He didn’t know if that was possible. He thought it might be confirmation bias causing Vincent to desperately find an explanation, and his extensive knowledge of all the murders would allow him to invent a memory for himself. But Will didn’t know if it was possible Hannibal could have controlled such a thing so intently.

Vincent interrupted his thought process. “I love you, Will,” he said, firmly. “No matter what I’ve done or why, that doesn’t change.”

“I don’t know how you remember it,” Will insisted, “but I know you didn’t do this. You’re not a killer. It’s someone else.”

“Who, then?”

Will’s heart pounded harder and more nervously than it had any right to, when he had to force out the word, “Hannibal.”

Vincent flinched as his face contorted in confusion and even disgust. “What?” he asked.

“I know it sounds ridiculous, but I swear. Just—”

“I know you’re trying to find a solution here but—”

“No, please, dad, you just have to believe me. I know,” Will pleaded. He leaned forward farther. “Think about it. He’s been manipulating you for the past four years.”

“Hannibal has been the only thing holding me together for the past four years,” Vincent insisted. Suddenly and somehow he had pulled himself together and he was dead serious. “He has more faith in me than I have in myself. He’d never hurt me like this.”

“How do you know that?”

“He cares about me.”

“How do you know _that_?”

Vincent froze with his mouth open. His answer stuck in his throat and never made it out.

Will looked away from his dad’s bloodshot eyes when the building pressure in his chest became too overwhelming. He realized his neck was collared as tight as Vincent’s hands were tied, but instead of being chained to a desk he was leashed to someone else. Will twisted around in his chair with his arm across the back to stare into the black window. He didn’t know what he was looking for. All that met him was his own reflection, reminding him he was a good boy.

He knew he couldn’t tell his dad anything without admitting to his own murder, or to the relationship he’d carried on with Hannibal for the past two months. Not unless he wanted to tell him everything and trust that Uncle Jack and the rest of the FBI would settle for the bigger fish rather than the minnow of a crime Will had committed in comparison.

But there lay the much bigger problem: Will had no evidence that Hannibal was the Copycat. Much less that he was the Snowman. He could get him arrested for pedophilia in a heartbreak, with the incriminating texts and his own testimony, but Vincent would still go to jail too. Since there was no way Will could solve the issue right then, he had to keep himself from saying anything damning. After all, he was going to be alone that night, in a world where Hannibal was free to do anything he wanted to him.

Not that he didn’t deserve whatever that was. Will turned back forward with his chin resting on his chest. He squeezed his eyes shut, if only it would help him retract his existence.

Then Vincent took a breath and said, “I’m sorry. I really should’ve told you this sooner. I was worried that with everything going on I would be making too many changes in our lives at once, but it’s too late for that now.” He sniffed and lifted his arm to scratch his nose. His chains rattled.

“What?”

“Hannibal and I have been partners for a few months.” Vincent watched Will’s expression and he saw nothing flickering over his son’s face. Will remained confused and nowhere close to registering the information.

So Vincent licked his lips and continued tenuously, “Starting in January. I didn’t know how serious it was, it was just one of those things that happens on its own and I didn’t know how to bring it up, or even approach it at all. But he’s a good man. I know you don’t know him that well, but I promise you I wouldn’t be with him if I wasn’t sure I could trust him with you. You have to trust him.”

Will was speechless. No matter how hard he tried to wrap his head around the idea, his mind simply rejected it. He insisted to himself stubbornly, as if he’d been programmed, that either he was misinterpreting the information he’d just been given or his dad was misinterpreting the relationship. “What?” he asked.

“We’ve,” Vincent stumbled on the words, “been in a relationship.”

“A romantic relationship?

“Yes.”

“Are you sure?”

Vincent couldn’t help but sputter a brief laugh. “I’m pretty sure. We never came out to anyone else but it was well-established between us.”

“That’s not possible,” Will stated.

“What do you mean?” While Will’s head was spinning, Vincent went on: “I know I’ve never mentioned that I like men before. It just never seemed relevant-”

“No,” Will shook his head, “no, I don’t care about that. But…” Things started coming together piece by piece.

Vincent putting on a suit and cologne to go out with him.

The night he stayed over at Hannibal’s house.

The intended spring break trip.

Will’s stomach turned like he was about to throw up. He slid back in his chair with a punch to the gut knocking the breath out of him. All that trickled out, like blood down his lip, was a breathed, “Oh.”

Vincent leaned forward and his chains dragged. “I’m sorry,” he said, pleading. “I know I should have told you sooner, but I was trying to find a way to do it more, more naturally.”

“It’s okay,” Will whispered, clutching his hands in his lap. “It’s not your fault.”

Vincent looked at him and knew it wasn’t the right time to fight him on that. And Will wanted to take this chance of weakness to try further convincing him again, but he was powerless. Still, it wasn’t Vincent’s fault, Will reminded himself. None of this was. Ever since Hannibal had been able to worm his way into his dad’s mind—both of their minds—and stick his needles and scalpels and retractors in there, everything had been derailed. It was all him. He needed to die.

Vincent exhaled out of his mouth and Will glanced up to see him, somehow, smiling. But it was a smile accompanied with tears building up in his eyes. He blinked harder and several streamed down his face. He sniffed and raised a hand to wipe them while he laughed and sobbed at the same time. Every emotion under the sun gushed out of him in that moment.

“I’m sorry for everything,” Vincent choked out. He sniffed again and dragged his hands back through his hair, heaving with broken sobs. “I know I’ve made a lot of terrible decisions, and I’ve—I’ve fucked up. I’ve fucked up. And I haven’t given you, the, the home and the love you deserve. But through it all the one thing I did right, the best decision I ever made was to have you. That’s the only thing—I’m so proud of you, Will. God, Will, I’m so glad you’re my son. You’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me. The best thing.”

Will’s heart sank deep, deep down, and dripped into a puddle on the floor. He felt like he needed to lie down for several days without moving, and the closest he could get was leaning on the table and putting his head in his folded arms. The cold metal was the closest he could get to laying his head on his dad’s chest like he did the night before. He closed his eyes and felt the fear possess his body.

Eventually the door creaked open and Uncle Jack stood in the doorway, face somber, with Hannibal was positioned slightly behind him. Will raised his head and saw him, and immediately the tears in his eyes burned away in a fire.

“I think it’s time you should go, Will,” Jack suggested gently. “You can come back tomorrow. We may have more information then.”

“Hannibal,” Vincent said, and seemed to hesitate before he went on. Will looked at his dad and realized he had been making eye contact with Hannibal, silently communicating with him since he stepped in. “Do you mind?”

“Not at all.”

Will didn’t need to hear elaboration before the unspoken agreement clicked in his mind. “No.” It wasn’t a question. He looked to his dad. “No, I’m staying at Alana’s.”

“Will—”

“Why wouldn’t I stay with her? That doesn’t any make sense-”

“Will,” Vincent said, turning to him, “Hannibal and I agreed about this a while ago.”

“What?”

“He promised that if anything happened to me he would take you in.”

“Of course he fucking did,” Will whispered under his breath.

“Will.” Vincent just exhaled. He sounded and looked like he hadn’t slept for years and Will’s heart ached when he saw it. “Do this for me. I have my reasons, I promise. Just, please do this.”

It felt like an eternity before Will finally forced himself to stand up stiffly. He felt everyone’s eyes following him to the door, but nobody knew what to say to him, and he didn’t look at anyone as he walked past Hannibal and left.


	18. Seventeen

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey dudes, this is the last chapter. And **I decided to orphan this fic instead of deleting it.** With how many people it's helped, you guys deserve to keep it. I'm in the process of making an outline of what would've happened in the sequel for some people who requested it and I'm open to sharing that with you guys by email if you want.
> 
> Thank you so much for reading this until the end and for all of your support throughout… I know I’ve said this before but it truly means the world to me. I know a lot of you have seen this as therapeutic and I have, too (read the note after chapter 15) and that we’ve been able to heal together has been a once-in-a-lifetime experience. I hope every one of you continue to grow and work toward your happiness <3 every one of you deserves to feel powerful and wanted.
> 
> I want to be writing more for this fandom and I hope I will, although I might take a break depending on how I feel. I do have another story up and in progress right now if you want to check that out, and I want to hopefully be collabing with other authors in the future too.
> 
> Again, thank you for reading and for everything <3

**Gnossienne No. 6 (Satie)**

It was a silent ride home. Will could have yelled at him; could have cussed and exploded in the fury he fanned with every thought, but he was utterly speechless. Hannibal made no attempts to hide how his stare lingered on Will for moments at a time, but Will didn’t let on that he knew Hannibal existed at all. His eyes focused dead out the window watching the darkness fly by them.

They drove first to Will’s house so he could quickly gather a backpack with essential clothes, toiletries, books, and electronics. Only enough for two days at the most. Will was upstairs getting ready with Hannibal presumably in the kitchen biding time, or doing God knew what. Will couldn’t be sure anymore.

A thought occurred to him out of the blue while he was sitting on his bed saying a temporary goodbye to his dogs. After peeking down the hallway and seeing that the way was clear, he snuck out of his room and crossed into his dad’s study. Getting the key to the file cabinet took him under a minute, even while glancing toward the door every five seconds half-expecting Hannibal to be there watching him. He never was. Finally Will was able to open the drawer where, in the shadows, the emergency gun lay in its hiding hole. He successfully stole it back to his room and then slipped it between some clothes deep in his bag.

As far as he knew, Hannibal hadn’t seen any of it, but Will couldn’t even be certain of that anymore. It was like having a spider in the house. Watching it sit on the edge of a desk or scamper across the carpet was terrifying, but it was a much greater threat when it disappeared.

They arrived at Hannibal’s house not long after. Hannibal closed the door behind them as Will was taking off his shoes and pulling his overnight bag higher onto his shoulder. They hadn’t said a single thing on the ride there and had let the classical music station do all the talking, but without that now, the silence was eating them apart. Hannibal walked farther into the living room pulling off his coat, past the couch where he had turned his music off for Will months ago. Will was a few feet ahead, already making his way to the stairs. But even with his back turned, he could feel when Hannibal was about to speak half a second before he did.

“On the second floor there is a spare bedroom—”

Will snapped, spun around and slapped Hannibal hard across the face. Hannibal stumbled back and caught himself on the wall, and when he had processed the pain, he gazed up at Will with dejection and arousal swimming in his dark eyes. He looked weak inside. A lamb to the slaughter. The violence echoed throughout the empty house long after its sound had dissolved.

Will watched Hannibal’s cheek flare brighter with red, and he knew, looking into his eyes, that the satisfaction dilating Hannibal’s pupils was the same heat surging through Will’s own muscles and pleading them to slap him again. His hand twitched in anticipation to feel that pleasant sting of Hannibal’s dignity on his palm.

But the moment had passed. He didn’t have anything to say and he just turned and walked briskly away, leaving Hannibal where he was. But as he was halfway up the stairs, he stopped himself and looked over his shoulder again, out of curiosity more than anything else. Hannibal was finally straightening back up, breathless and flushed down to his neck.

He looked up at Will again with a hand gingerly on his cheek. “You’ve heard the conversations I have with your father,” he said. After the hit, his voice was reeling. “How fundamentally vapid they are.”

“Just shut up,” Will hissed. Tears welled in his eyes without his permission. “Stop pretending like you give a fuck about me. Oh my God, you never did, did you?”

“My boy—”

“Don’t you dare call me that!” Will’s voice raised to a yell and broke in the middle of his sentence. He leaned forward, clutching the banister with white knuckles. “You don’t—you don’t have the fucking right!”

“Will,” Hannibal whispered. He came forward to try and approach him but Will sensed it and took a hasty step in the opposite direction, so Hannibal obeyed and stayed where he was. “It’s insulting to even speak of my relationship with your father in the same breath as ours. The comparison is embarrassing.”

Will shook his eyes, wiping away tears with the heel of his palm. “No. You’re delusional. The only reason it felt like that to you was because you were manipulating me the entire time to depend on you while you were—fucking—brainwashing me. And why?! Because you’re a psychopath who wants to control everyone around you?! Because you think it’s—we’re—” he stuttered, trying to piece together the emotion fracturing in his mouth. “Because we’re fucking soulmates or something?”

“Yes,” Hannibal said softly.

“That’s bullshit. You just want to possess me.”

“I do possess you.” Will stared at him aghast, rage struggling to articulate itself, until Hannibal went on. “Just as you possess me,” he whispered. “You’re my boy. I belong to you and you belong to me.”

“You’re not capable of love,” Will snapped.

Moments of dead silence passed, and even through his blurry vision, he got to watch a miracle. Hannibal crumbled as he waited for more, and it began to occur to him that there was nothing but utter contempt in Will’s eyes. He showed all the physical signs of crying without actually crying and with an empty ring to all of them, exposing the innate hollowness in his soul. Hannibal took his gaze away just to protect himself from the pain of staring too long. Will couldn’t believe it as it occurred to him too. He could cut him apart. He could gut him.

Will leaned against the banister again, staring at Hannibal’s averted eyes. “I hate you,” he hissed. “To the bottom of my heart I hate you, and only because I know you so well. You told me you never tread deeper than the pseudo-intimacy you get by killing and psychoanalyzing and holding these fake relationships in this display case of a home. You’re so afraid that if anyone was really able to understand you and give you that human connection you desperately crave, they’d look into your heart and find you’re truly worthless. And they’d be right.” He took a deliberate pause to let the poison sink in. He knew, by the way Hannibal deflated, when it did. “You had all of this planned out so perfectly but your one mistake was being honest with me, and hoping I would still love you for who you are. You forgot that you are. Fundamentally. Unlovable.”

Hannibal turned his gaze upward again. His dark eyes, once tar-like and now melting, begged for some mercy or affection only to meet Will’s cold, unwavering stare. Will turned around and walked up the stairs, with Hannibal’s attention clinging to his back like an animal strewn across the road watching the car drive away.

Will’s cheeks and eyes were raw and red while he lay in bed, staring up at the ceiling. His fear and distress echoed and roared like wind through a hollow chest too exhausted to heave any more sobs. He felt like he was in a nightmare.

The hours passed outside his window where the moon glowed solemnly in a sky dripping treacle, and Will dragged himself across the coals obsessively. Who knew what Hannibal would do now that he was in control of the situation? Will’s skin crawled when he remembered that night they were sitting in the woods in the dead of night and he was acutely aware that Hannibal could overpower him with ease. That was why Will now had his dad’s emergency gun sitting under his pillow, just in case. It was the only object in the world that might keep him safe. But he knew he couldn’t defend himself forever. He had zero control over his life now, and if Hannibal decided to turn to physical means to get what he wanted, Will wouldn’t be able to stop him.

He stared into the rabbit hole and couldn’t see a bottom amidst the darkness. Maybe it was two-feet deep and maybe it tunneled to the center of the earth. That meant there was only one option available.

Will sat up in bed and slid out into the pitch-black. His footsteps down the hallway, past the library, and the Leda and the Swan sketch remained mostly concealed under the dim rustling of the trees outside. Underneath it all he could hear the hum of the heating system keeping the cold at bay. When he had reached Hannibal’s door he looked around at the hallway around him, blood pounding in his ears. He half expected Hannibal to be standing somewhere watching him, but he wasn't. Only an empty house remained. Still, this alleviated none of the paranoia clawing at him, clinging to his ear and insisting that he was never safe.

They hadn’t seen each other since Will slapped him. He had immediately locked and barricaded himself in the alien room and Hannibal retreated to his, though at one point Will risked a peek outside his door and saw Hannibal’s slightly ajar down the hall. It wasn’t swung open, but had just a large enough gap that it was clearly deliberate and whispered, “For you.”

Will urged his fear to remain docile for just a little longer, but, crouching against the wall next to Hannibal’s door, he didn’t know if that was possible as long as he was himself. The one time he had ever killed someone was in a moment of impulse and—at least initially—self-defense, although Will reminded himself that those were just Hannibal’s words. There was no guarantee in any of that now. But unfortunately, he knew that Hannibal didn’t need to provoke anyone to violence to accomplish his objectives, and he likely never would. He had gone four years without it.

So Will closed his eyes and stepped into Hannibal’s skin for a moment. _How would Hannibal kill Hannibal?_ He remembered the evening he and his dad went hunting with him and how silently he moved. He acted as if he could willingly take himself in and out of existence, with as much control over the very fabric of himself as he had over the fabric of his coat. His eyes were always patient but they never lost their laconic boldness. He spoke in italics. His thoughts were as readable as the moon passing behind the trees.

Will breathed out himself, and breathed Hannibal in. When he opened his eyes he could see through the dark right back to the dead end of the hallway, and he could control all of it, down to the floorboards. He could lift them up if he wanted to and bury someone. The wind rocking through the trees outside was eternally louder than his existence.

Pulling this new skin around him, Will crept the rest of the distance to the room and slipped through the crack in the door without a sound. The irony of seeing Hannibal asleep in his bed nearly took Will out of his trance. The way his hair lay chaotically over his eyes and the moonlight wrinkling over his plain white shirt made him look even human. There were only two other situations where Will was ever so aware of Hannibal’s fragility: one was a few hours earlier, and the other he’d witnessed more times than he could count.

**Je Te Veux (Norman)**

Will approached him from the side, carefully not to let his steps make a sound over the carpet. Only as soon as his knee eased its weight onto the mattress did Hannibal stir and turn over, eyes half-open. His gaze shifted over Will’s small figure descending next to him, trying to figure out what was happening and if he should pull him in or defend himself. Will didn’t give him any clue.

Without a word he leaned down and weaved his fingers back slowly through Hannibal’s thin hair, studying the way the strands behaved in his hand. Hannibal’s eyes closed at the touch, relishing in the merciful sensation. Shutting off his gaze left Will’s free to wander wherever it wanted. It hung on Hannibal’s lips, settled in their base state: expressionless. His muscles breathed easily from under his shirt, ready for dissection like a frog on a lab table. The next thing Hannibal felt was his boy’s palm on his chest, right next to his heart that shuddered and curled at the touch. Their lips were inches away. The next thing Hannibal felt was a cold barrel pressed to his throat.

He opened his eyes. Through the dark blue he saw Will’s gaze resting on Hannibal’s cheeks, hand resting on his chest, leaning his weight on him. But he held a gun against the vein throbbing with adrenaline.

Hannibal dared to sit up just slightly with his mouth against Will’s hair and inhaled deeply. Coconut.

“Did you just smell me?”

Hannibal laid his head back down on the pillow and gazed up at him. “Well,” he whispered, “since I have only a few seconds to live…”

“You fucked my life up.” Will’s voice snapped like the whistle of the wind acting as a blade, chopping trees from their trunks. “You ruined. Everything.”

“Would killing me tonight unfuck your life?” Will breathed out his nose and Hannibal felt the metal press harder against his vein. “It would certainly be therapeutic,” he continued, unafraid, “but what would happen next?”

“Why do I care?” Will hissed. “Why wouldn’t killing you be more satisfying than the fear of any consequences I might face?”

“The fact you’re asking yourself that question means you’ve thought it through far too deeply to take action.” Hannibal raised his head up to put his lips by Will’s ear again and whisper, “If you really wanted to kill me, nothing would be able to stop you. That’s how I know you belong to me, my boy.”

He took Will’s wrist in his and flipped their weights so suddenly Will had no time to react or resist. In half a second he was stretched out beneath Hannibal, face-to-face and chest-to-chest, while Hannibal’s hand remained on his wrist far above his head. Gracefully and coldly, he worked the gun out of Will’s hand and kept their eyes locked. He placed the weapon on the bed stand with a dull clatter.

Will was paralyzed in terror and with the sudden gasp lurching from his lungs, all his composure came undone. The second skin fell away at his hips. There was nothing he could have done, anyway. Hannibal’s weight over him was daunting and his grip was unforgiving. No matter how hard Will tried to hide from the predatory look in his eyes, he couldn’t fight it. Hannibal held him and saw through him, right down to his spinal cord.

But despite everything. Despite Will’s violent shaking and the hate eating at his mind, Hannibal’s natural perfume hung thick in the valves of his mind, throat, lungs, and the carved-out recesses of his heart. It was infectious. Little breaths escaped Will through the thick knot forming in his throat, not all in fear.

His wrist burned from sitting too long in Hannibal’s palm.

Hannibal brought his lips next to Will’s, whispering against his cheek. “Do you want me to let you go?” he asked.

Will found he would rather have Hannibal act without his permission. The alternative would be admitting to himself the truth gnawing at him like the ache between his legs. Hannibal’s body eclipsed the moon, and in the shadow of his life, Will was faced with reality—that he wanted to be the recipient of any chaos Hannibal was capable of. He looked boldly into his dark eyes and couldn’t see the end of them, if there was an end. The only way to know how deep the rabbit hole went was to climb in.

He could always kill him in the morning.

“No,” Will whispered.

Hannibal stroked Will’s hair back from his forehead as gently and reverentially as petting a cat. Then he guided Will’s chin up, leaned down, and softly sunk his teeth into the flesh beneath his jaw. Will breathed a quiet cry out of pure instinct and his body rocked up. He wrapped his arms around Hannibal’s back and clawed at his shirt as Hannibal conquered his lips.

Checkmate.


End file.
